


Walking Tragedy

by Anonymous



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Cigarettes, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, minor f/f relatioship at the beginning, psycho by lauren aquilina, title is from a song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Velvet soft skin, a bright smile, (E/C) eyes. He wants to tear you apart, wants to destroy you. He wants you in the worst kind of way.You aren't sure how to feel about that.Or, the one where you're seventeen and your world ends, changes, shifts.
Relationships: Jeffrey Woods | Jeff the Killer/Reader, Minor Reader/Original Female Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27
Collections: Anonymous





	1. GOD CAN'T HELP YOU NOW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Psycho by Lauren Aquilina  
> Warnings for this chapter: Implied/referenced child abuse, some mentions of violence.

**be·gin·ning**  
/bəˈɡiniNG/  
_Noun_

1\. the point in time or space at which something starts.

You wake up slowly, (E/C) eyes opening, shutting quickly when the sunlight hits them. You worm your way out of bed, stumbling over to the closet to find clothing, pulling on dark shorts and a green crop top. You walk over to the bathroom, brushing your hair and teeth, pulling (H/C) hair into a high ponytail. You walk back into your room, pulling on a jean jacket, and tying up your heeled boots. Quickly you scoop up your bag, making your way down the stairs and out the front door.

Locking the front door behind you, you settle into a chair on the porch, bag set down on the ground next to you. (E/C) eyes look up to see the forest stretching out in front of you. You see a flash of color out of the corner of your eye and turn to see a figure standing among the trees.

They’re too far away for you to see them clearly, but you can just barely see their stark white jacket and dark jeans. You’re getting ready to stand up and approach the person when a horn honks. You jump, turning to see who it is, strange person momentarily forgotten as Mariah rolls down her window to yell out at you.

“What are you, deaf? Come on (F/N)!”

When you turn, the person is gone. You shrug, grabbing your bag.

It was probably nothing.

He slowly climbs the tree up to her window, pulling open the unlocked window, and easily climbing inside. The room is small, but comfortable. Bed pushed against the wall, closet door left open. Her vanity is littered with various objects, a set of drawers next to her bed contains a journal, some books, and bags of food.

He walks over to the closet, fingers drifting over the soft fabrics, imagining the girl who wore them. He lies down on her bed, his head on her pillow. Thinks about how she’d been in this bed just a couple of hours ago. He rolls over, pressing his nose into the pillow. Her presence lingers, strands of (H/C) hair on the bed, the artificial scent of cinnamon and vanilla. A smudge of blood on the sheets.

He sits up, turns his head to stare down at the picture frame on the dresser. He picks it up, relishing the feeling of the cool metal against his skin. The picture tells a story, and he wonders about all the details. There she is, his (F/N) glowing in the light of a setting sun, a smile on her face, an arm around her shoulders.

She’s wearing a loose white dress in the picture, and he finds himself obsessed with the hollow of her throat, the curves of her shoulders. All of that smooth (S/C) skin.

He feels his throat dry at the thought of cutting into that skin, of marking her up so thoroughly that people would look at her and know she belonged to him.

He pockets the picture frame, shutting the drawers behind him. He exits the same way he entered, and he has half a mind to come the next day as well. He sits in the tree for a moment, mind whirling, imagining the feeling of soft hair and warm skin against his hands.

 _Soon,_ he thinks.

Soon she would be his, and there would be no escape.

He jumps the rest of the way down, landing silently. He walks up to the front door, crouching so he couldn’t be seen through the window. Slowly, he moves a rock from the dirt just next to the porch, eyes greedily taking in the sight of a gold key. He takes that as well, hissing at the soft noise it makes when it bounces against his knife. He creeps back into the forest, content to make his way to the school.

He had to see her again. Let his eyes feast on the sight of all that fucking skin of hers.

You make your way through the line, grumbling slightly when someone stops too abruptly in front of you. Finally you make your way to the back entrance where your friends have settled themselves on the steps. You sit, sliding the bag off your shoulder gratefully. Quickly catching up with the conversation, you grab your slice of pizza and take a bite. You push a bit of hair out of you face, groaning as the conversation turns to prom.

“So, (F/N)...are you gonna go to prom,” Sandra asks, a smirk on her face.

You sigh, “I don’t know, probably not.”

Immediately your friends protest, and you find yourself slightly amused at the quick response.

One of your friends spoke, “Come on (F/N)! Why not?”

You stopped for a second, trying to frame your statement in a way that made sense.

“I just…I don’t have a date, first of all, second I just don’t know if I’ll enjoy myself.”

Quickly they assured you that it didn’t matter if you had a date, and that it would be fun.

“Trust me, (F/N) I would know,” claimed Mariah. You believed her, as she was one of the more popular girls in school, she had friends everywhere and a knowledge of almost all the going-ons at the school.

“One of my friends on prom committee told me the theme was Masquerade,” Mariah continued, pushing a bit of blonde hair out of her face. Brown eyes shining with humor.

You hesitated, imagining what it would be like. Girls in colorful dresses, masks of every shape and color. Maybe it would be dark, and the music good, and suddenly you can see yourself there, dancing with your friends, laughing at every misstep.

“Alright, I’ll go,” you smiled, closing your eyes as your friends cheered.

You laugh slightly, shaking your head. You look up and there, just in the distance stands a person.

Your mind flashes back to the figure from that morning, white sweater, dark jeans, too far away too see much but shapes and colors. He’s closer this time, but still too far to make much detail out. A shiver runs down your spine, and suddenly you feel silly.

 _It’s just a classmate,_ you think.

_I’m freaking out over nothing._

You figure you should say something, but what? _Hey sorry guys I’m freaking out because one of our classmates is standing far away and I think he was watching me this morning?_ You open your mouth and-The bell rings.

You go to class.

The walk home isn’t too far, but it’s enough that you find yourself more inclined to take a shortcut. There’s a small pit of anxiety coiling in your stomach at the sight of the shadowy trees, but you pull your bag higher on your shoulder, walking in anyways.

The deeper into the forest you get, the darker. You pause, hand on your bag, eyes falling shut. It’s peaceful, the sound of leaves rustling, the faint noises of animals, the sounds of cars in the distance.

You open your eyes, continuing to walk. Abruptly you feel a distant sense of discomfort washing over you, the hair on your arms stands straight up.

A twig snaps.

Someone is watching you.

When you turn, there’s no one there.

A shiver rolls down your spine, and you walk faster, hoping whoever it was didn’t intend to hurt you. You shudder, the feeling of eyes burning into you like a brand.

It feels dark, possessive.

_Obsessive, you think._

You perk up, seeing the break in the trees that you were looking for. Jogging quickly, you break through the trees, making your way onto the road. You pass a few houses before finally making it to your own.

Your key slots into the lock, and you turn the handle, pushing into the house.

A blanket of safety drapes across your shoulders, and you breathe in softly. The eyes are still there, watching you, but suddenly they don’t seem to matter as much now that you’re home. Nothing in here could hurt you any worse than whatever was out there.

You’re about to head up to your room when you hear your name being called. Your back stiffens, and you slowly turn, heading down the few steps you’d already climbed. You turn into the kitchen, and there’s your mother at the table, a cigarette delicately dangling between two fingers. You eyed the tense line of her shoulders and resigned yourself to having to wear long sleeves for the next week or so.

You sat down, hands twitching helplessly in your lap. A hand raises to your chin, cold fingers digging into your skin as they forced your face to look up at your mother.

Cold eyes drilled into yours, eyeing every bit of your face that she could see.

“You know…..you look so much like your father.”

Your eyes shut, a terrible shame falling onto your shoulders as your mother continued speaking.

“He was a handsome man, all (H/C) hair, and (E/C) eyes.” Your eyes watered.

“And it’s your fault he’s gone”

Her hand tightens around your jaw, and then, surprisingly, pushes your face away. You hear her push her chair out, putting her cigarette out in the ashtray before making her way up the stairs, leaving you alone.

You stared down at your hands, shoulders stiff and anxious. A wet sigh fumbles out of your mouth as you prod at the tender skin of your jaw. Hopefully it wouldn’t bruise.

For a moment, you sit there. Just staring down at the tablecloth, (H/C) hair clutched in your hands. Teeth chattering with some fucked up cocktail of pain, sadness, and anger. A hand falls to rub tiredly against your face, rubbing some of the makeup off your face to reveal deep bags beneath your eyes.

Finally you rise, pushing in the chair behind you as you grab your things and head up the stairs. You got lucky once, best not to tempt fate and risk pissing your mother off further.

Sometimes it seems like your mere presence infuriated her.

She wasn’t entirely wrong though.

If you’d never been born, maybe your father wouldn’t have left. Maybe then your mother would have actually been happy with her life.

You tiptoe past her room.

Finally you step out of the darkness into your bright, sunlit room. You kneel down to untie your boots, placing them on the ground in your closet. Your socks come off next, and then you unbutton your shorts, tossing them into the hamper. You crawl into your bed, pulling the pale blue cover over you as you slide your laptop from beneath the pillow.

You log in, fingers flying over the keys to type in your password, and you make your way through various social media websites.

You’re scrolling through twitter when you look over to your nightstand. Like a shock down your spine you notice the picture frame that had been there was now missing. You stand up, shutting your laptop behind you as you bend down to look underneath your bed. The frame isn’t there, and you rise, moving things around to see if the photo had maybe just fallen somewhere.

It’s gone. You feel your hands twitching again, distress clouding your mind.

You searched once again, but still, nothing.

You were, to be frank, losing your shit.

Your eyes drifted over to the clock, and you sighed. You needed to shower soon.

You’d look again when you got back.

He takes the photo out of the frame, and the glass shatters from a corner behind him when he throws the frame. He pulls a knife from the pile next to him, pressing the photo against the wall. He aims, and with a thud, the knife is embedded in the wood, pinning the photo to the wall.

He leans closer, wide eyes once again absorbing the sight of wide (E/C) eyes. His eyes linger on the arm around your shoulder. His head tilts, eyeing strawberry blond hair and dark brown eyes.

There’s a moment of consideration and then-

His grin spreads, impossibly wider, stretching the cuts in his cheeks into something painful looking.

He chuckles, flipping a knife in his hands.

Pulling his hood over his head he exited the dusty shack he’d been hiding in.

He had some searching to do.

_3:56 am: (F/N)?_

_3:56 am: are you there?_

_3:57 am: sorry baby._


	2. HER HELL'S MY PARADISE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Horns by Bryce Fox
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: medium rare gore, uhhh jeff being creepy idk.

_Sorry baby? What the hell does that mean?_

**mariah♡**

_3:57 am: sorry baby._

 _mariah? did something happen? r u ok? 7:13 am_ **S✔**

No response, but you weren’t really expecting anything immediately. Still, worry gnawed at your stomach, and you started getting ready to walk over to her house. What if something really bad happened and she couldn’t respond?

Right as you bent down to tie your shoes-a buzz, your head jerking over to the phone laying on your pillow.

_7:32 am: i’m fine. but i. i did something bad. and i don’t know what to do._

At this point you’re feeling the soft dredges of a panic attack boiling steadily closer to the surface. ‘Did something bad’ god, what were you about to come over to?

_listen, im coming over, whatever happened we can_

_deal with this together. 7:33 am_ **R✔**

_7:34 am: thank you_

Quickly you grabbed your jacket from the hook, snatching up your phone and hurrying out of your room. You made sure to be quiet while passing your mom’s room, but soon fear clouded over, and you broke into a jog, not bothering to lock the front door behind you.

Mariah’s house had always been just a few streets away from your own, so you made it there sooner than you’d been anticipating. Slowing to a stop you approached the front door, turning the handle slowly.

The door was unlocked, and you opened the door enough to slide inside, closing it behind you.

The house was silent, and you feel a shiver roll down your spine. Your brain flashes back and-

_i don’t know what to do._

_i don’t know what to do._

_i don’t know what to do._

God. What fucking happened?

You step up the stairs, and immediately notice an odd smell. It smells...you aren’t even sure how to describe it. The word copper bounces around in your brain, and for a moment you stand there, hand on the railing, so still you’re not sure you’re even breathing.

And then it clicks.

_Oh god, oh fuck._

_Why does Mariah’s house smell like **blood**?_

You run up the stairs, nearly slamming into the wall with your speed. You’re standing in front of Mariah’s door, when you’re phone buzzes.

_7:59 am: you know, (F/N)...you’re such a good friend._

You open the door and-

_There’s so much fucking blood._

A hand rises to cover your mouth and you feel yourself shaking, unsure if what you’re seeing is real. Terrified to admit that it may be. The smell of blood so strong you can feel vomit rising in your throat.

Mariah’s body is laid out on the bed, her warm blonde hair stained red. Her mouth is slashed open ear to ear, in some mocking caricature of a smile.

You step forward, hot tears streaming from your eyes as you nearly fall. You’re brain flies in so many directions, but all your mind can focus on are the various stab wounds all over her body.

You look up, at the wall, and there, above her bed you recognize part of the missing photo from your room. You’ve been cut out, and Mariah’s half is pinned to the wall. Hearts painted in blood surround the room, and you can see where they’ve dripped.

You hold back the urge to vomit, and your hands shake as you call the police.

You’re crying and shaking and-a buzz.

_8:06 am: don’t you like my gift sweetheart?_

You pause, looking at the number, and dread settles across your shoulders. You realize two things almost simultaneously.

_One: Mariah wasn’t the one texting you._

_And two: Whoever killed Mariah, wanted **you** to find her body. _

You swallow and-you can hear the sirens, already so close. But then you think- _Can they see you?_

You look down at the text, and you hesitantly press the call button.

Silence. And then, the unmistakable sound of a phone ringing from downstairs.

It’s so loud it echoes, but then it stops, and you realize suddenly that the call has been answered.

You raise the phone to your ear.

“Well, hello darling.”

The voice is deep, raspy from disuse. You feel a shiver roll down your spine, and you find your voice won’t work.

“Not even a hello back? What, cat got your tongue?”

Finally, “Who are you?”

He chuckles, a deep grating noise, and you feel a sneer pulling at your lips, fear and sadness making way for raw fury.

“Now, don’t you know it’s too early in the game for that? It’s no fun if you start off with all the answers.”

Part of you forgets that Mariah’s killer is downstairs, could so easily get you next if you’re not careful.

“Have you considered, maybe, that this isn’t a fucking game?”

He laughs, and you fucking hate him. He pauses abruptly and-

“Maybe next time sweetheart.”

The line goes dead, and you can hear the sirens as the police pull into the driveway, coming inside through the unlocked door.

You call out to them and you tell them everything, about the missing photo, the texts, the call you’d just endured. How the killer had her phone. You avoid looking at Mariah’s body while you explain.

Your mother comes to get you, her grip tight on your shoulder as an officer explains the need for police protection.

You’re distracted from the conversation when you hear a shout, an exclamation that her phone had been found on the table.

You turn, and there it is.

Your mother’s grip tightens, holding you still, as she discusses the best options for your protection with the officer, but you keep staring as the phone is packed away, the person to touch it signing a slip of paper. Tucking it away with some other evidence that had been collected.

A part of you hopes that maybe this is it, that you’ll go home, and a police officer will watch your house, and you’ll never have to deal with any of this again.

But you know good things don’t happen to you. That this is just the beginning of some terrible new story.

He goes back to his hideout. He can feel the excitement coursing through his veins, a sense of euphoria at the bite of anger he’d heard in her voice. It was clever of her, he thinks, to call him. It would have been so easy to take her then, before she knew he was in the house.

Still, it was only prolonging the inevitable really.

 _Soon,_ he thinks.

_Soon, soon, soon._


	3. BURY A FRIEND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Bury a friend by Billie Eilish
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: smoking, self harm, vomiting

It’s only when you’re laying in bed that night that you think of Mariah’s parents. Of the call they’ve surely received by now.

To find out your only child is dead-has been murdered, you can’t think of anything worse.

You roll over again, finally giving up and turning your lamp on. There’s no comfort to be found in your bed, your room. Not now that you know Mariah’s killer had been in there. Touching your things, stealing your shit. It frustrates you, your room was your safe haven, the one place your mother never bothered you.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

But now-now all you could imagine was someone invading your space, tainting it with their presence. Your fingers absentmindedly tap out a tune on your thighs, before abruptly stopping, the digits flexing nervously as you get up and begin to pace. You look down at you hands, eyeing them warily.

You’d been terrified to come near Mariah’s body at first, but at some point you’d come closer, grabbing her hand. There had been blood fucking everywhere, that even just her _hand_ , was practically dripping.

When you’d eventually gotten home, you’d tried scrubbing the blood off your hand, but you could still see traces of it under your nails.

A part of you wonders if this is your fault. Most things are, but this felt personal. Your mind flashes back to the photo, the hearts on the wall.

It scares you. But...a part of you is curious.

What kind of person could do this? What kind of person would kill a teenage girl., and then just text that girl’s friend like nothing’s wrong?

You step over to your closet, digging in deep for a box hidden in the back. You find it quickly, opening the box to find a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. You pull on a pair of leggings, tying your hair back in a messy ponytail. Opening the door, you creep past your mother’s room and down the stairs, avoiding the creaky steps. Soon you’re at the back door, and you slide it open with quiet noise.

The soft sounds of crickets soothes you as you pull a single cigarette out of the carton. The small flame dances merrily as you bring the cigarette closer, lighting the end.

Soon you feel an almost wary calm settle over you. You look up at the sky, admiring the few stars you can see.

A part of you feels numb, and you eye the cigarette between your fingers with interest.

You aren’t thinking when you press the bright flaming end against your wrist.

It burns, obviously, but the pain barely filters through to you. The cobwebs lingering. You can smell the slightest hint of burnt flesh

You tilt your wrist curiously and for a moment-a split second, the sight of the burnt, blistered flesh is almost beautiful.

Then, suddenly everything comes back to you. The bright burning sensation on your wrist, the emotions flooding back. There’s a sense of horror coiling in your stomach, but you almost feel...relieved?

You drop the cigarette, crushing it beneath your heel. You dig a hole in the dirt, covering the cigarette butt. You stamp the dirt down flat, holding your wrist close to your chest as you make your way to the bathroom.

As you bandage yourself you try to figure out what happened. Where your mind went. Why the fuck this seemed like the best idea you’d ever had.

A part of you knows.

_Maybe next time sweetheart._

Fuck.

You carefully make your way to your room, shutting the door behind you. Drawing the curtain back ever so slightly, you peek out at the police man sitting in his cruiser. He has his lights off, but you can see him fairly well with the streetlight he’d parked under.

Somehow it didn’t really make you feel safe. It kind of just made you feel trapped. Especially since you’d have to be escorted to the school by one of the SRO’s.

There’s an itch under your skin, a desire to do something worse then just burn your skin, but you resist the temptation, instead pulling out some school work you hadn’t completed.

You figured if you weren’t going to sleep, you might as well be productive. It had the added benefit of keeping your mind off the creeping feelings of paranoia and lingering trauma of seeing your best friend’s body.

God, the way her skin had almost been peeled back from her face-NO, math. Math.

You try not to think about it for the next few hours, and eventually you find yourself too exhausted to continue.

You place your things on the ground next to your bed, settling into your bed as you shut off the lamp.

The darkness swirls around you, both soothing and oppressive.

You wonder if he can see you, Mariah’s killer.

You fall asleep.

When you open your eyes it’s dark. Your limbs feel numb, and they don’t react when you try to move them.

You hear a noise in the distance, it’s quiet, barely a whisper, but you can still tell that it’s your name. You struggle harder to regain feeling, and finally, finally, the feeling returns to your arms.

The sight you push yourself up to is horrific, blood covers the ground around you, your clothes, it’s on your hands and matted in your hair.

And there, crawling weakly towards you, is Mariah.

Her flesh is torn apart, blood dripping from the shredded skin. She calls out for you, weakly, her voice trembling with pain.

_“...(F/N)”_

It’s barely a croak, but it stabs through you like a knife, and you find yourself scrambling backwards. A part of your mind screams at you to help her.

Why aren’t you helping her?

You already know.

It’s because you’re too goddamn afraid.

You back up further, standing on shaking legs.

You bump into something in your desperate scramble for escape, and you find yourself stuck, your throat bared as someone holds you. It’s an almost mocking form of escape, and you want to run. Get away from Mariah, and this stranger.

You just want to go home. To a time where memories tasted like sweet candies on your tongue. A time where nothing hurt. When you had two parents who loved you, and you didn’t know the touch of fear, or abandonment, or suffering.

A voice, deep and raspy whispering in your ear.

_“Gotcha.”_

Mariah makes one last pitiful noise, before the hand reaching for you falls to the ground. You feel yourself screaming as a kiss is placed against your throat, the limbs holding you restraining you further. Becoming tighter and tighter until-

You wake up.

You scramble to the bathroom, barely making it in time to retch into the toilet. There’s not much in you to throw up, but you still manage.

Eventually you stop, pressing your damp hair out of your sweaty face.

You feel lost, defeated.

There’s a monster after you, and you don’t know what he wants.

You’d tried so hard to avoid thinking of it, but something about you had drawn this killer’s attention.

You pull yourself up, rinsing your mouth out and wobbling back to your room.

When you look at the clock, you find it’s barely 3 am.

Great.

You settle yourself into the corner, watching the door, and the window with a wary look.

Your mind wanders, returning to Mariah. To your dream. You wonder if it hurts to die. Wonder how much pain Mariah was in before finally succumbing to her wounds.

But was death-dying painful? Or was it just like blowing out a candle? Quiet, and dark, and safe. Or was it like-like if you knocked that candle over instead and let it burn your house down. A part of you thinks maybe you deserve to die. That maybe if you'd been smothered in the cradle, all these people would still be here. Better yet, if you had never been born, maybe Mariah would have been okay.

It's a chilling realization. And you find yourself staring blankly at the wall, tears streaming down your face. Slowly the hours pass, almost as if in a blink, and you realize the sun had risen. 

You rise, your bones creaking with discomfort as you approach the window. It's a different officer now, a woman you think. 

You look up at the sky, noting the thick angry clouds. 

In a way, you kind of get it. There was no sunshine left in you. And maybe it hadn't started with Mariah, but it did end with her.

You've been hollowed out over the years, like waves crashing over a rock, slowly whittling it down into nothing.

You find yourself storm bound, with no brakes to slow you down.


	4. YOUR BROKEN HEART BREAKS MINE

It’s Monday morning, and you feel like you’re dying. You pull on a pair of jeans, a shirt Mariah had given you, and a sweater to cover the bandage on your wrist.

You don’t bother with makeup, instead just grabbing your bag and shuffling quietly down the stairs, stepping out the front door and locking it behind you. You walk up to the side of the car in the driveway, knocking lightly on the glass. The woman in the car smiles softly at you, clicking a button to unlock the door so you could get in.

You climb in, setting your bag at your feet, and shutting the door. The woman begins to speak, slowly about their situation.

“So, my name is Cassandra, and I’ll be driving you to school on Monday’s, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and I’ll drive you home on Tuesdays, and Thursdays. One of the other SRO’s will take you the other days. Do you understand?”

You nod weakly, and her eyes soften as she places a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, you’ll be okay, I’m sure the officers down at the station are doing everything they can to catch this guy.”

You nod again, this time slightly frustrated. You didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to even fucking think about it. But, you had to accept that this was your life now. That people in this town would always look at you and just see the friend of that poor dead girl.

And Mariah would never be anything but dead.

Nothing but the dead girl, too pretty, too young. Killed for some stupid. bullshit reason.

People wouldn’t ever think of her as smart or clever, or creative, or anything more than fucking dead. Just a tragedy that they could use to make themselves feel better about being alive. Maybe as a warning to their stupid fucking children.

In the end, she'd be nothing more than a statistic.

It makes you want to tear your hair out.

The ride is short, and you find yourself drifting, as if in a haze. Fog clouding your mind. You snap out of it during lunch.

“(F/N)...what happened?”

You look up at Michelle, with her sad brown eyes, and you don’t know what to say. You and Michelle were friends, but she’d always been closer with Mariah. Mariah was her _best friend._

And now she was gone.

You explain the best you can, about the texts, and the worry, and the visit. The gnawing terror in your belly. The picture, and the body and the blood.

Michelle's face rapidly pales, her dark face becoming ashen.

When she starts crying you pull her closer, hand idly rubbing one of the smooth braids laying against her back. You find your eyes watering, your teeth chattering, but you push it downdowndown.

There’s no more room for your grief.

You can feel your head pounding with the beginnings of a headache, but you ignore it, instead focusing on the soft sobs coming from Michelle. Her hands clutch at your shirt, and you don’t say anything about the rapidly growing wet spot on your shoulder.

The bell rings and you slowly let go of Michelle, grabbing your things. You stop when she grabs the end of your shirt, pulling you back down next to her.

“Do you want-” she stops, rubbing tears out of her eyes.

“Do you want to just-skip, go somewhere?” And you look at her, with a vague questioning look, and she laughs, a small defeated thing, but a laugh nonetheless.

“I just don’t think I’ll be able to focus anymore today, not-not now that I know what’s happened.” And she looks at you, dark eyes pleading.

You think of your mother, the kind of reaction she’d have if she found out you skipped. The bruises she’d leave you with.

Fuck it.

“Alright, but I have to be back before the end of the day, I kinda have a police escort taking me to and from home for who knows how long.”

She smiles, and you both quickly run for her car.

Michelle’s car smells nice. It’s the first thing you can think as you’re buckling yourself in, and you’re brain focuses on that fact.

Her car smells nice, and it feels like a bubble of safety. You look over at Mariah as she starts her car, and there’s an almost sad but determined expression on her face. You feel butterflies in your stomach, and you jerk, turning to face the window. You feel, almost ashamed. This isn’t-you shouldn’t-

God you’re a mess.

A part of you feels disgusted with yourself. _Mariah is dead,_ and here you are, having stupid fucking feelings for her friend? You peek over at her from the corner of her eyes, eyeing the grief clinging to her.

_God she’s pretty._

A part of you wants to deny it, to deny the way her smile makes you feel, and how you like the way the light hits her eyes, glimmering off the golden stud in her eyebrow.

You’d thought it before, you think, before Mariah, before the stolen picture and the weird person watching you from a distance. You’d thought it before, so maybe it was...at least a little okay to feel this way?

A part of you feels dirty for being able to feel anything but overwhelming grief, and you sit quietly for the rest of the ride, only looking up once the car stops.

The car is parked in front of a McDonalds, and you turn to see Michelle holding onto the steering wheel. Her grip is tight, and you eye the way her fingers flex, as she moves to unbuckle her seat belt. You move to do so as well, and soon the both of you are in the line, ordering your food.

You offer to split the cost with Michelle, but she waves you off, saying it’s fine and to go find somewhere for the two of you to sit.

You pick a booth in the corner, setting your bag down on the seat. Waiting for Michelle to come sit down. She comes over, cups in hand, and you smile up at her, accepting the empty cup.

A part of you is uncomfortable. You’d never really been very outgoing, and excursions with friends were generally pretty stress inducing as it is, this last minute one was beginning to make your skin crawl. But you also...kind of like it. It feels so normal, and suddenly you aren’t this pitiful thing, you’re just a girl, skipping class with her friend. Just a normal girl who has a good life, and didn’t see her best friend’s dead body, and definitely wasn’t losing it.

Just a normal girl.

It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

You fill your cup, hoping Michelle can’t see the slight tension in your shoulders from where she stands next to you.

You pull out a straw and a lid, assembling your drink swiftly, hoping to god your hands don’t shake. Unsure what you’d do if they did.

The look Michelle gives you is still somewhat watery.

You hurry back to the table.

You sip softly at your drink, the cold drink fizzing softly inside of you. When Michelle sits down in front of you, you aren’t sure what to say. Michelle opens her mouth to speak, and you tense, the possibilities of what she’d say all rushing through your head at once. The words seem just about to come out when the workers call out her order number, sending her hurrying to stand and claim the tray of food.

You breathe a sigh of relief, thankful for the momentary reprise from conversation. Speaking could go wrong in so many different ways, and all of them could affect your already rocky relationship with Michelle.

Could steal that little bit of light, that shred of normalcy you’d been clinging to.

You're interrupted from your thoughts by a prickling feeling on the back of your neck.

Someone was watching you.

You turned around, looking at the window, finding nothing suspicious. Still, the feeling lingered. Michelle arrived at the table, placing the tray of fries between the two of you. She sat down, and she smiled at you, something sweet and vaguely exhausted, you smiled back.

You opened your mouth to speak, but was startled by the sound of the door jingling open. You look up, seeing a man walk away through the glass. He had a white sweater on, the hood pulled down low to hide his face, though you could see bits of long dark hair almost shining against the stark white of his sweater.

Suddenly, it’s like you just _know._

This is who was watching you, this is the man you’ve been seeing.

You ache to get up, to follow him, to figure out _why_. You’ve already half-risen out of your seat when you realize,

_Michelle’s sitting right there. Concern on her face, at the sight of your rapidly paling face_

You find yourself at a fork in the proverbial road. You could go, could get your answers, or you could be normal. For just one afternoon. One sweet, blessed afternoon.

You sit down, and eat your fries.


	5. PSYCHO KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Psycho Killer by Talking Heads  
> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of self harm, idiot dumbass fucking with their burn, somewhat graphic descriptions of a crime scene, vomiting

The both of you get back to the school just in time for the bell for your final class to ring. You say bye to Michelle, and hurry over to the hallway that class is in. Stumbling into your seat right as the bell rings, and soon your mind wanders to the man. A part of you regrets your decision, but there’s no...there’s no changing that. You made your decision, and now you had to live with it.

Still, you wonder.

What would have happened if you went with him? Why was he watching you? What did he want?

You halfheartedly try and do your work, but there’s no room for math equations with all the questions lingering in your head.

You doodle random shapes on the corner of your paper, mind drifting away. You hiss when you move your hand too quickly, irritating your burn. You look around, eyes shifting to the people around you to ensure no one was looking at you before peeling the bandages you’d wrapped around your wrist. The skin around the burn was an angry red, but the burn itself had blistered, the skin a milky color.

Now that you’re paying attention to it, the pain returns. A low simmering burn just underneath the skin, leaving your wrist feeling raw, and almost stiff. Slowly, you dig a nail into the skin, hissing quietly at the pain. It feels almost relieving, in that way that ripping a scab off is relieving.

You wrap it back up, figure there’s no point in trying to pay attention to your work, pull your phone out.

The messages haunt you. To think that you’d been unknowingly texting a murderer. Worrying over what you thought was your friend needing help, but was really just some sick fuck playing games with you. You think of the bloody hearts painted on the walls, that haunting smile…

You struggle to remember anything else, but every time you try it seems the memories are overpowered by the memory of Mariah’s body.

Anything-everything takes you back. You try to remember the vanilla spice perfume she loved, but instead your senses are flooded with the scent of copper, so thick and oppressive. You’d scrubbed your skin raw in the shower that night. Trying desperately to remove the smell.

You shut your eyes tight, desperately thinking happy thoughts. Your 12th birthday, sleepover’s where the two of you giggled in the dark, the Christmas dance the middle school held, that day at the beach-

Blood so dark the carpet was surely dyed scarlet, the skin of her face sliced open, so far open you could see her gums, her pearly white teeth. The tongue ring she’d gotten for her birthday, glimmering from the depths of her mouth. Her stomach a mess of mutilated viscera. Her cold hand, and blank unseeing eyes…

You stand abruptly, startling the teacher from her lesson.

You swallow, “The bathroom, can I go to the bathroom.”

Your voice is flat, and you can feel your hands trembling where they’re pressed flat against the desk. For a moment you think you’re teacher will say no, but she nods, quietly urging you to leave the room.

You rush to the bathrooms, making it to a stall in time to vomit. You hurriedly push your hair out of your face during the small reprieve you get. You duck your to vomit once more, leaning back against the stall when you stop. You’re dizzy, vision blurring your surroundings into a smear of color as you desperately gulp for air.

You pray to whatever gods will listen that Mariah died quickly. That she didn’t have to live through her body being torn apart, mutilated, desecrated.

You shiver, bending over the toilet, chest heaving as you puke.

About ten minutes later you stand up, wobbling over to the sink to rinse your face off. Your mouth tastes sour, and you cup your hands, swishing some water into your mouth. You shut the water, leaning against the towel dispenser with a huff. You look your reflection in the eyes, staring her down. The bags beneath your eyes are darker, your mouth turned down in a frown.

You blink slowly, flinching when your reflection changes.It’s still you but...blood drips down the sides of your face. The sides of your face have been torn open, cut into a gruesome smile. You blinkblinkblink and it’s gone, nothing but a wide eyed girl, trembling in a school bathroom.

Is this your future, you think?

Dead eyes, and an immortal smile?

You drink some water, and go back to class.

You don’t speak for the rest of the class, or on the ride home.

It feels like you’ll never speak again.


	6. GOT MY RED DRESS ON TONIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Summertime Sadness by Lana Del Rey 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: nightmares, light gore, stabbing

The week passes slowly, like sand trickling through an hourglass. It’s a cycle of survival, and you hate it. You’re angry, and sad, and so goddamn scared, and you can barely process any of it. Thankfully the week ends without any disruptions.

You hope the rest of your life passes like that.

Your hopes are dashed almost immediately by the sight of Mariah’s parents in your living room. Her mother immediately stumbling over to you to cradle you in a hug. It’s an affection you savored, the feel of her fingers running through your hair, the rhythmic beating of her heart beneath your ear. She’s a mother, through and through.

You’re so close to breaking down, you can feel the tears building up, and you know if she doesn’t let go of you right now you’re going to start crying.

Thankfully she lets you go, pulling back to stare at you, a watery smile on her face as she pushes the hair out of your face. Her thumb rubs idly against your cheek, and you want so badly to cry. It takes every bit of strength you have to keep the tears from flowing, and you know you’re going to have a killer headache later. You’re throat already hurts as it is.

“Wh-” you cough, choking on your words. “Why are you guys here?”

Mariah’s father clears his throat, rising to stand by his wife, hand falling to rest comfortably against her back. “We know you and Mariah were planning to go to prom and we thought...well, if you don’t have any other options we thought we’d give you Mariah’s dress.”

Your eyes flicker to the box resting on the couch. You’d dismissed it originally, but now the sight of it was burned into your memory.

“Is...is that it? In that box?” He nods, and you walk over to it, knees shaking the entire time. You pull the lid off, and find dark red fabric peeking up at you. You spy the straps, and hook your fingers in them, lifting the dress out of the box.

It’s gorgeous. It’s horrifying.

You turn, a false smile stretched across your face.

“It’s beautiful, but are you sure you want me to have this?”

Mariah’s mother smiles, says, “I think she would have wanted you to have it.” And how-how do you say no to that?

The three of you talk for a bit longer, before they eventually leave and you’re alone in the living room. You gently stuff the dress back in the box, cradling it in your arms as you head up the stairs. You’re alone, with your mother off on her night shift, so there’s no one to interrupt the outburst you’ve been swallowing down. You set the dress down delicately on your bed, and then you crawl your way to the farthest corner of your room.

You can see a bit of red fabric out of the corner of your eye, and you turn, your face pressing against the wall. You can feel the tears sliding down your cheeks, hot and bitter.

You aren’t sure why this is messing you up so bad. But you know that this should have never been an option. That, that dress was meant for a different girl, that no one should have died for that dress.

That’s Mariah’s dress, and you shouldn’t have it.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, and wobble your way back over to the bed. You pull the dress out completely, fingers running over the intricate beading, and smooth satin. You weren’t wrong in thinking the dress was gorgeous, and you hesitantly undress.

The dress fits almost perfectly when you try it on, perfectly once you adjust the straps. It’s big and flowy, and it feels so nice against your bare legs. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and you don’t recognize yourself. Guilt eats away at your insides, and you anxiously scratch at the edge of the bandage on your wrist.

You shut your eyes momentarily in an attempt to shake away your anxiety. When you open them, You shakily grab your hair, twisting (H/C) hair into a bun. You play around for a bit, trying to find something that looks right, before settling on a braided crown. You’d done this enough with Mariah at sleepovers that it wasn’t hard.

You’re momentarily soothed as you fall into a rhythm while braiding your hair. You place the last pin in and your hair is done. You do a small twirl, and for a moment you feel okay.

Your good mood hasn’t disappeared by the time you start getting ready for bed. It’s a Saturday the next day, so you don’t bother with a shower, instead tossing your clothes into the hamper for an oversized shirt and some grey shorts. You hesitantly turn off the light, thinking of the dress hanging in your closet. You think of the smooth satin, and the tiny beads. You think of good things, and soon you drift off into the darkness.

You open your eyes to complete darkness. For a moment you’re confused, but then, a spotlight. There’s a girl, she’s got long strawberry blonde hair, elegantly curled and pinned away from her face. She’s wearing a red dress. The light glimmers off the golden pins in her hair, the small red gems encrusted on them. When she turns, she’s wearing a mask, her lips painted ruby red. Eyes dark inside her mask.

It’s Mariah.

She glides over to you, the light following her as her smile widens. Her hands reach for you, pulling you into a hug. She feels so warm, so alive.

You think it’s driving you crazy.

She leans back for a second, pressing a kiss against your cheek, catching the corner of your lips. Her embrace tightens, almost painfully as she stretches to whisper in your ear.

“It should have been you.”

You flinch, pulling back to look at Mariah, whose grip has turned painful. You find a nightmare in her place. Her face is carved into a smile, her eyes flat. There’s blood all over her, dripping down her skin. Her hair is matted and stained, and where her hands are gripping you, the blood has transferred to your own skin.

Her nails bite into your skin, drawing blood. You cry out, struggling to shake her off.

Her smile seems to widen as she speaks, “You have taken everything from me. My life, my best friend, and now even my prom dress? The levels you will stoop to (F/N).” The last part is said almost incredulously, as she squeezes your arms in her grip. You look down to find you’re wearing the dress. All red silk and satin, delicate embroidery and meticulous beading. She turns her head ever so slightly, dead eyes searching, smile ripping open even further as she seems to find what she’s looking for.

“Oh (F/N)...he’s waiting for you.”

With that she turns you around, pushing you into the oppressive darkness. You trip, only for steady hands to catch you, gripping your forearms. It’s not too tight, but you know without a doubt, that you wouldn’t be able to break his hold. You look up into the empty eyes of a mask. It’s golden, with delicately painted on features. Your eyes flicker down to see a dark suit, black gloved hands still gripping your arm. The stranger maneuvers your arms without a word, taking one of your hands in his, the other laying to rest on his shoulder.

You feel like a doll with the way he manipulates your movements. He moves you through the first few steps of a waltz, and your mind blurs. It’s almost lovely, if you can ignore the blood cooling on your shoulders, the empty eyes of the mask staring down at you.

The vision shatters when he speaks. His voice is deep, raspy from disuse. You feel a shiver roll down your spine, and you find your voice won’t work. You don’t hear the words he says, too preoccupied with the realization that the man holding you was Mariah’s killer. You struggle to pull away as he laughlaughlaughs, and suddenly the room is full of people.

A sea of masks laugh at you, men and women in their finery grab you tight as you push your way through the crowd. You can still hear his laughter over everyone else’s, ringing in your ears his laugh a deep grating noise. Can feel the touch of his hands against your skin, even when other unknown hands pull at your dress or hair. Grip your skin tight enough to bruise.

You make your way through the crowd, finding yourself in front of a large mirror, you grab the chair, deciding to break through, but you’re stopped by the knife piercing your back. You let out a choked little cry as you fall, seeing the man in the reflecting, cradling you in his arms. He props you against his chest, balancing your limp head against his shoulder so you can clearly see your reflection. You stare into an empty mask as he raises the knife higher, stabbing straight through your breast, to your heart.

You jolt up in bed, gasping for air, hot tears pouring from your eyes. You curl into a ball, your hands pressed against your chest where phantom pains still linger.

“It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream.”

You repeat the mantra over and over for the rest of the night. A deep grating laugh echoing in your ears all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N) Yes the dream sequence is a reference to my favorite movie, Labyrinth


	7. MY BLACK FIRE'S BURNING BRIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Serial Killer by Lana Del Rey
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: crusty goblin man and his crusty goblin man pov, graphic depictions of violence

It’s fun, evading the police watching her house. Almost amusing how they think he can be caught by something so obvious. It’s easy to track her movements, follow the schedule the police rotate on. There’s a small opening, between the moment one officer leaves, and the other arrives.

It’s not enough time to do much of anything, but it’s good to know.

He adjusts his position in the tree, eyes latching on the small glow coming from her backyard. He’s not close enough to see the exact details of her face, but he can see that it’s a cigarette.

_How naughty._

He can see her clearly enough to spot the moment she presses the cigarette against her skin, the few brief moments where she doesn’t move. 

The brief flinch, the way she immediately hides the evidence of her late night activities.

How interesting, he thinks. 

_**~~the only marks on her body should be the ones he puts there. only him, only his. his hands his knife, only him.~~**_

He waits and waits and waits, for that small opening. 

The cruiser drives off.

With a look of glee, he makes a run for it.

He shuts and locks the door right as the other car rounds the street corner. Grin spreading wider at the sight of them parked beneath the lone street light. He creeps up the stairs, silently, barely a breath leaving his lungs. He stops just outside her room, opening the door barely a crack.

He can see her, sleeping. Hair fanned out on the pillow, hand hanging limply over the edge of the bed. Feet just barely poking out from beneath the blanket. He opens the door wider, stepping inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet noise, and he walks further into the room. He considers taking something, moves to dig through her shelves when he hears a whimper from behind him. 

He stills, hearing another, and his grin _spreads._

When he turns, she’s shifted, her body tense, an expression of abject terror creasing her features. He kneels beside her, head tilting as he sees her curl further in on herself. Trying desperately to remain quiet, even in her sleep. He leans close enough to feel her breath, to eye the way her lips quivered. He can see her eyes convulsing beneath the delicate skin of her eyelids. 

It would be so easy to hurt her. To cover her mouth and _carve her open._

Take his knife and slice his name into her skin so she’d _know._

He can see it, can picture the way her eyes would shoot open, her hands scrambling to escape, legs kicking. She’d struggle and cry and beg as he tore her open, painted her skin with her own blood. The way her skin would split beneath his blade. Maybe he’d break her fingers, just to see her squirm.

He can hear the delightful crack and snap of her joints already.

Can hear her gurgling breaths as he choked her, face rapidly changing from red to purple to blue. The way her eyes would bulge, the broken blood vessels. 

She’d be lovely in death. 

He’s tempted, and he finds he’s never quite craved destruction as much as he does with her.

He wants to kill her. Simple as that.

But then he thinks…

_Wouldn’t it just be so much fun to break her instead?_

To break her down, prolong her suffering, make her as broken, and deranged as he is.

It’s an enticing idea, one he hadn’t really considered before. 

_Companionship._

_Interesting._

He leaves before he can tempt himself into changing his mind. In killing her right then and there. 

The next time he sees her, he’s following someone else. If he’s gonna make this half-assed plan work, he has to keep his bloodlust down somehow. 

If he kills other people, then he won’t feel the need to kill her. 

So. This. The man he’s been following is older, mid 20’s maybe. He’d followed him into the Mcdonalds using one of those touchscreen machines to avoid speaking to an actual cashier. He’d settled down with his order, sliding the occasional fry underneath his face mask when the bell above the door jingled. His eyes flicked over to the people entering, freezing on the sight of one of the girls.

It was her, dark bags beneath her eyes, hair hanging limp around her shoulders. There’s another girl with her, and his eyes latch on the braids in her hair, the warm brown eyes, and golden stud in her nose. She’s pretty, he supposes, and he eyes the way (F/N) seems to lean _into_ the other girl’s space. The way she seems to melt into her touch, the almost blatant _attraction_ in her eyes. 

Suddenly the urge to kill surges, and he _hates._

He doesn’t know who this stranger is, but he decidedly chooses to ignore her existence as he watches (F/N) picks a table across the room from him. 

For a while, he just stares, only occasionally flicking his eyes over to his original target. He barely notices the man leaving, leaving quickly in an effort to keep the man in his sights. 

He almost doesn’t notice her rising, how quickly she notices him, and the way she _sees_ him.

But he does, and something in him strikes hot, something vicious and cruel and _hungry._

The man doesn’t stand a chance, and Jeff has fun with him. Takes his time in hurting him. Cutting him, and digging his fingers in, tearing him _open._ It’s messy, almost childlike in the destruction.

He’s angry, but he pictures (E/C) eyes, and (H/C) hair, and the beast inside is _soothed._

Only for a little bit.

The hunger returns just as quickly.

The curtains aren’t drawn when he peeks into her room. She’s standing there, scarlet fold of fabric _clinging,_ showing parts of her body he hadn’t really seen before. He’s got a pair of binoculars, snatched up from the last person he’d killed, and he can see _everything._

The smooth curve of her back, the barely visible swell of her breasts. The delicate strands of hair against the side of her face. He can’t quite see her eyes, but he can imagine them, the dark lashes framing them, the way the light caught them _just so._

There is something inside of him, and it’s _ravenous._

Prom, he thinks. It’s a prom dress.

And suddenly, everything clicks.

He watches her twirl, the way she looks free and so goddamn _happy._

He’s going to rip her apart, steal her away, and he knows just how to do it.


	8. TO FEEL ANYTHING AT ALL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Strangers by Halsey
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: references to child abuse

You spend the next few weeks numbly gathering pieces for prom. A pair of heels from your closet, a golden mask you’d found while clearing out the attic, a pair of earrings you found while shopping with Michelle. 

It isn’t really bad, the numbness. It just feels like you’re floating through the days, time breezing by. 

You’re out with Michelle when it hits you, you still have to tell your mom that you’re going to prom.

You feel your stomach turning, and you’re grateful you’d already finished your food, because you were sure if you tried to eat anything you’d vomit. You pull out your phone, warily tapping in your password and swiping over to your contacts. Your thumb hovers over the icon, the contact photo a simple picture you’d taken from her facebook.

She’s smiling, lips spread to show gleaming white teeth. 

She’s never smiled at you-not like that, with that joy, and kindness. When she smiles at you, it is more a baring of teeth. A predator closing in on their prey, prepared to rip and tear and _hurt._

_A predator prepared to devour._

You’ve never lived in a world without the boogie man breathing down your neck, you think.

You breathe in, air rattling in your chest, and press the call icon.

You bring the phone up to your ear, stomach sinking as you hear the phone ringing. Your heart stops when the call pick up. You breathe in. 

“Hi mom.”

There’s a moment of silence, before she responds, “What do you want,” her voice is flat, uncaring. You explain your situation, using as few words as possible to avoid irritating her. Something in her voice...softens, in a way you’d only ever heard when she was talking about your father.

“Prom, huh?”

You swallow, feeling small, vulnerable even. Though you know that here in the mall she cannot hurt you.

“Yes.”

A moment of silence, and then- “Alright.” The call ending without warning. You blink. Put the phone face down on the table. Turn to look at Michelle, whose face screams concern.

You know what she’s thinking, can tell what she’s worried about, but you don’t-you don’t want to talk about it.

“Hey let’s go to that store on the first floor-”

She goes along with you, but you can still see the concern, burning into the corners of your vision for the rest of the day.

When you get home, your mother is waiting for you. She’s sitting on the couch, hands curled around something small and shining. You set your bag down, with a quiet sound, gently closing the door behind you. 

You can feel your hands shaking, and you stick them in your pockets to still them as your mother approaches you. Unfolding herself from the couch with slow, deliberate movements.

You hold still, body taut as a bowstring with your refusal to flinch. 

It only made her angrier when you flinched.

You shut your eyes as she takes your hand, placing something in your hands. Weakly, you open your eyes to see the hairpiece in your hands, the delicate white flowers with their golden tips, the small glimmering diamonds at their centers. 

You look up at your mother, confusion and fear in your eyes as she explains. 

“I wore this at my own prom, when I was your age. I thought you should have it.” If you didn’t know better, you’d say she almost sounded...awkward? 

Still it was a kindness, one she’d never afforded you before, and you croak out a quiet, “Thank you.” She nods, turning and heading up the stairs without a glance back.

You’re so fucking confused, but you grab your things, quietly making you way to your room, carefully cradling the finely crafted hair piece in one hand. Placing it next to the mask on your vanity, slumping down onto your bed.

You close your eyes, daydreaming about a world where your mother was always like that, always kind, and her touch was cotton candy soft.

A world where you didn’t flinch away from her touch, where everything was better.

You squeeze your eyes tighter as you feel the frayed edges of the dream slipping away, too fast for your desperate, grasping fingers. 

Your eyes fly open at the feeling of your phone buzzing against your ear, and you lift the device eyebrows scrunching in confusion as you answer her call.

“Hello?”

“Hey (F/N) I uhh, I meant to ask earlier but-” She pauses, sounding nervous, flustered even. She takes a deep breath and-

“I wanted to know if you’d be my date to prom?”

You feel your cheeks warm, the desperate fluttering of a thousand butterflies in your stomach and you stutter out a yes.

“Really? Okay, okay cool, alright I’m-Thanks.”

She hangs up and you laugh, feeling warm. You press the phone against your chest and-

It still feels wrong. To be happy in a world where Mariah is dead but...you do. Despite everything your brain is telling you, every warning and sign of danger, you’re so happy.

You close your eyes.


	9. DRESS ME UP AND WATCH ME DIE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from Emperor's New Clothes by Panic! At the Disco  
> Warnings for this chapter: non consensual drug use, needles, blood mention

The dress is just as beautiful as the first time you saw it. The layered chiffon was gossamer smooth against your legs as you slipped on your heels, admiring the gold detailing on the heels. When you stand, you feel almost powerful.

Your eyes flick over to the window, eyeing the empty stretch of road. 

Your police escort had finally tapered off about a week ago, as the actual investigation into Mariah’s murder slowly dwindled to a close. Most figured it was a one time thing, some sick fuck passing through and deciding to commit a heinous act. There’s a part of you that’s raging against your insides at the injustice of it all.

You get it, sort of. People want to pretend everything is okay, to go back to being just another sleepy town full of people who knew their neighbors.

You know better. Know better to trust the slow growth of comfort creeping over the town. To assume that just because nothing had happened _yet,_ didn’t mean you were in the clear.

You sigh, pressing your fear and paranoia down. Tonight was supposed to be about having fun, and you think of Michelle as you braid your hair. Think of her smile, and her laugh, the way she’d looked in the picture she’d shown you of her prom dress. 

Things weren’t okay, but they’d get there eventually.

Soon you’re holding the hair pin your mother had given you, and you take a moment to further inspect the piece. It was more of a comb that sat in one’s hair, the teeth a pale yellow gold. The jewels reflected different colors when the light hit, and the flowers were made of delicately crafted metal. You place the comb in your hair, gently pressing it into place.

You grab your mask, with it’s smiling golden sun, and your purse. Walking down the stairs and out the front door right as Michelle pulls up. 

She’s as lovely as you expected.

If he wants his plan to work, first he needs to find a boy. One with a prom ticket. It’s not hard considering almost every guy in their senior year is planning on attending. 

It’s easy to pick a boy, find his address. Easy to find out everything he needs in this town. Too small, too trusting. 

It takes him a bit to figure out the date, but eventually someone is stupid enough to talk about it out loud.

The next step is figuring out how he’ll get her from Point A, to Point B. 

He’s smart. He’ll figure it out.

You and Michelle spend a few minutes taking pictures together before entering. No one asks for your ticket, though you’d brought it just to be safe. The two of you walk into the crowded hall, spotting the table your friends are sitting at, and joining them. 

You have fun, dancing with Michelle, eating the food the school was serving, drinking the lemonade. It’s fun, and you eye the small twinkling lights hanging from the rafters. 

Dancing with Michelle is a new experience, a delightful one, you think as the two of you twirl on the dance floor, dresses sliding against each other in a kaleidoscope of color.

You’re dizzy, but in a good way, the music thumping in time with your heart, and when Michelle kisses you, her hands against your face, and lips warm and glossy against your own, you think you’re going to explode.

You kiss her back, one hand gripping her lower back, the other tangled in the braids hanging down her back. You feel your mask click against each other, and pull away with a laugh.

Her eyes are warm inside her mask, a wide smile spread against her lips, and you kiss her again, and again, and again.

The boy doesn’t have a chance to scream before he slits his throat. It’s with an almost joyful movement that he begins to dress himself in the suit the other boy had been planning to wear. Tying his hair back, and sliding on the mask.It’s a full mask, which works well to disguise his features. The golden smile painted onto the mask isn’t as lovely as his own, but then, most aren’t.

He grabs the boy’s car keys, walking down the stairs with a skip in his step. He steps around the bodies on the floor, in an attempt to avoid getting blood on his shoes. Stopping in front of the mirror to adjust his suit jacket. 

He opens the door, stopping momentarily to look over at the blood pooling on the floor. He laughs, slamming the door shut behind him.

Michelle’s dress is so blue, her mask luminescent with its shimmering opalescent accents. The silver eyeliner you can see peeking out beneath her mask is a stark contrast to her skin, and when you kiss her she tastes like the lemonade you’d been drinking most of the night. 

You take a break from dancing to head to the bathroom, leaving her with the rest of the group. It’s mostly empty when you enter, and you’re thankful for it. Using the toilet quickly, and walking to the sink to wash your hands. You’re checking your makeup when you hear the door open.

You don’t think anything of it until you see the figure out of the corner of your eye. It’s a boy, standing there, watching you. His mask is white, a curling golden smile painted on it’s delicately carved lips. The eyes blacked out by some sort of sheer material.

“Hey I think you’re in the wrong restroom,” you say, turning to stare at the newcomer. 

He doesn’t respond, instead choosing to continue silently staring at you. 

You feel a chill creep it’s way down your spine, and suddenly the painted smile is much more menacing then it seemed initially. The dark eyes staring into the depths of your soul. You feel the hair on your arms standing on end.

“Whatever,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the fear behind the word as you leave the restroom, pressing against the wall to avoid touching him.

You’re only mildly concerned, more uncomfortable than anything really.

Sure it was weird, and very uncomfortable. But nothing would ever terrify you as much as seeing Mariah’s mangled corpse, the terrible, dawning realization that her killer was just beneath you, had been texting you for who knows how long.

Michelle smiles up at you as you return to the table, and you push the weird experience away, choosing to focus instead on the dizzying rush of emotions flaring up in your stomach, the way your cheeks have begun to flush.

Her hand is so soft in your own.

She’s even lovelier in person. The dress exposing the smooth skin of her back, The full, blood red lips, and flowing dress hanging on her body. He was tempted to snatch her up then and there, grab her by the delicate flesh of her arm. 

_Restraint,_ he thinks.

He just needs to be patient, wait for the right moment.

Michelle laughs, a loud thing that makes her entire body shake, and you think you could love her. You’ve never had something as kind and lovely and wonderful as her love you before, and it makes your head spin. 

You’ve never been loved before. Not like this, not ever. Not really.

It’s wonderful, and you feel like your heart is going to burst with how fast it’s pounding, the blood flowing in your cheeks. The way the inside of your mouth has begun to taste like her.

You feel like you’re flying, a rushing, soaring emotion flaring beneath your skin. 

You feel like you could spontaneously combust into flames when she smiles at you, her thumb rubbing small circles into your skin, and you don’t care.

Right now, in this moment, nothing matters. Every worry buried beneath the dirt to make room for memories of her smile and her laugh, the way the light seems to glimmer off her glossy red lips. The small silver beads braided into her hair, the skin of her left leg, peeking out from the slit in her dress. All of it clouds your mind, a haze of joy filling you, drowning out everything else.

You dance, and dance, and dance until your feet ache. 

It’s a moment, sparkling and shimmering and you’re blinded by the desire to kiss her. 

So you do.

He watches her from across the room, arms folded across his chest. She looks like she’s having fun, and he eyes the line of her throat, as she tips her head back to laugh. Her hands appear small from a distance, and he imagines a knife in those tiny tiny hands. The shuddering sound of her tears. He thinks of her, splattered in blood not her own, a crazed grin spread across her face. He thinks about what it would be like to fuck her. And he shakes his head, clearing away the thoughts to focus on the task at hand.

She’s standing, a smile on her face as she heads to the drink table for more lemonade. 

He wants to chew her up, wants to destroy her and shatter her into a million different pieces. Tear her apart, and stitch her back up into something new, something glorious. 

He strokes the syringe in his pocket, and waits.

Slowly, the dance begins to break up. People beginning to leave, even though there’s still a little over half an hour left. You head to the bathroom again, regretfully thinking of the many cups of lemonade you’d had. Half the chaperones have gone home by this point, the rest of them inside watching over the few people still there. 

The bathroom is once again deserted, and you’re halfway through washing your hands when you feel an arm grip you around your stomach. A needle pressing against your throat. You struggle, nails digging into the arm around you, and you feel your vision blurring. 

You look up in time to see a golden smile, dark eyes staring down at you.

The world goes black.

You feel giddy with excitement. The butterflies in your stomach gone mad. You think of (F/N), of the scarlet fabric clinging to her skin, the way her lips looked. The sight of her hand in yours. You’d had feelings for her a while really, but you’d always been a bit too nervous to ever really say anything about it. 

You’d gushed to Mariah about her on more than one occasion, and you find it terribly ironic that it was Mariah’s death that brought the two of you closer. You’re distracted from your thoughts by the DJ announcing that this would be the last song. You look around and…(F/N) still isn’t back from the bathroom.

You don’t think anything of it at first, but the minutes draw closer and closer to the end, and you stand, grabbing her purse along with yours as you head to the bathroom. Maybe she just needed some air, you think as you swing open the door.

It’s empty, and your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. You’re about to turn around and leave when a small glimmering light catches your eye. You look down and-

Something in your stomach curdles in fear.

There, on the floor just beneath the sink sits the flowered comb that had been resting in her hair all night.

You kneel down, heart sinking to your stomach as you scoop up the delicately crafted accessory.

She’d told you how important this was-how her mother had given it to her and-

She wouldn’t just leave this here.

As long as you’d known (F/N) she’d been almost obsessive about ensuring she had all her stuff, it was a quirk you’d initially found endearing.

But now you were concerned.

“(F/N)?”


	10. ALL DRESSED IN WHITE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The Nurse Who Loved Me by A perfect Circle
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: violence, non consensual kissing

She looks peaceful, passed out in the passenger seat. Long (H/C) spilling over her bare shoulders.

He pulls over on the side of the road, close enough to the cabin he’d claimed, scooping her up and walking the rest of the way. Later he’ll drive the car further away, but for now it’s important everything is set up. 

He uses one hand to open the door, cradling her close as he kicks the door open further. The gauzy red fabric is lightly torn towards the bottom where branches had tangled in the cloth. He lays her down on the bed, grabbing the thick manacle and clipping it around her ankle.

The mask comes off first. The thin black ribbon unraveling beneath his fingers as he sets it to the side. The dress comes off just as quickly, revealing more of her skin, but there’s not time to focus on her body, as he’s quickly moving to get the dress from the picture, and slide that one over her shoulders. He’d stolen it from her a while back, and it was only a little dusty from how long he’d had it. He takes her shoes off, tossing them in the furthest corner, and then he’s done.

He tilts his head, eyeing the way the white fabric almost glows in the light provided by the small barred window. 

He wants to stay, wants to wait for her to wake up, to see the confusion, and the horror. But he needs to move the car for any of this to work. 

So. He goes.

Your eyes feel heavy when you try to open them. You struggle to remember what happened, and you sluggishly attempt to go over the events of the day before.

Was it the day before? Or just a few hours? How long have you been gone?

You remember snatches of moments, Michelle’s blue dress...dancing until your feet hurt...a menacing golden smile.

Suddenly you remember going to the bathroom, the hand that grabbed you, the needle pressing into your throat.

You slowly open your eyes, a beam of moonlight shining in your eyes. Your eyes shut, the light burning into your retinas. Slowly you ease your eyes open, looking up at the ceiling. Dust floats through the air, and you eye a crack in the wood paneling above. The air around you smells stale, and you push yourself up on trembling limbs. The first thing you notice is your change of clothing. You’re prom dress lays in a crumpled heap on the ground and you look down and-

You’re clothing has been changed. For a moment you don’t recognize the dress you’re wearing but then it clicks and-

“The dress from the picture with Mariah,” you whisper it softly, but you feel something inside of you cracking, a terror you aren’t sure how to identify.

And you just-you just _know._

_He finally caught up._

You’re panicking and you look down further and you see it. A gleaming manacle, locked around your left ankle. You follow the chain with your eyes, seeing that it connects to the bed which is bolted to the ground.

You feel your breath go short and your eyes burning with tears. There’s a scream lodged in the bottom of your throat, and you’re so close to letting it out when-

The sound of a door.

You become deathly still, as heavy footsteps hit the floor, nearer and nearer to the entrance to the room you’re in. The door opens with a creak, and you’ve pressed yourself as close to the wall as you can get. Your eyes fall closed, your body trembling with fear as you hear him drag a chair into the room. 

A single tear slides down the side of your face as you hear him sit. And when you finally look, there’s a nightmare staring up at you. A cocky grin-except it’s wrong. It’s too wide, and you can see the raw bloody edges of the cuts and-

His skin, you think, is almost deathly pale. His eyes seem to be a pale blue, easily visible due to a lack of eyelids and somehow this is even worse than seeing Mariah.

At least Mariah had already been dead. Her mutilated corpse unable to rise from the dead, and torment you. 

He stares at you for a moment, arms crossed on the back of the chair, and you notice the way he’s sitting almost makes him seem more human. Like he could just be a normal guy.

You feel your lip trembling, and you bite down, forcing yourself into complete stillness. It makes you think you’re cowering before a predator. You’re not far off.

His eyes flicker to your lips, grin growing impossibly wider as he spots the blood bubbling up from where your teeth have dug themselves into your bottom lip.

He speaks, his voice raspy with disuse.

“Well hello pussycat. How has my favorite girl been?”

There’s a moment of silence, and you realize he wants a response. You momentarily debate between refusing and potentially angering him, or replying in an effort to keep him happy. You don’t know how long you’ll be here, and you know this isn’t a man afraid to get his hands dirty.

“It’s-” you cut yourself off, choking on your words. You’re afraid. Genuinely, heart-stoppingly, afraid. “It’s been bad.”

He bares his teeth, and for a moment you think, _‘This is it. This is where I die.’_

But he continues to smile, quietly content with your response. Staring at you with wide, lidless eyes. You take the moment of silence to inspect him further. He’s still in the suit from before, and you wonder, momentarily, about who had to suffer for him to get that suit. His hair is long and dark, possibly black though you can’t be sure in the near darkness surrounding the two of you. 

There’s not much to stare at you realize, unless you direct your eyes to the mutilated skin of his face. You look into his eyes, perhaps the least terrifying, gut-wrenching part of him, and you’re _afraid_ , but you’re also _so goddamn angry._

He rises, the chair screeching slightly as he kicks it away, walking to stand before you. When his hand grips your face, you stare him down, refusing to close your eyes while you die.

You prepare yourself to be stabbed, or choked, or hit, or anything of that sort.

What happens instead is worse.

His hand grips your face, fingers bruising your skin, and he kisses you. 

You freeze, feeling the rough skin of his cheeks brushing against your face, his teeth digging into your already torn lips. His tongue invading your mouth shocks you into reaction, and without thinking, you slap him.

He backs up, an almost manic light in his eyes, and you’re horrified as you spot the lines of blood forming from where your nails broke skin on his face. 

Maybe, you think, maybe, before you had a chance of getting out of all of this alive. A minuscule sliver of hope that you would survive.

That chance, you realize, is gone.

The only escape now, will be that of death.


	11. WEAK AND POWERLESS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Weak and Powerless by A Perfect Circle
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: choking

_Wow_ , he thinks. His hand rises to press against the cuts stinging against his cheek. She’s pressed against the wall, eyes shifting in fear. She’s cornered, and she knows that. It would be so easy to keep pressing. To push her to the edge. However, he’s already set to play the long game, drag this out as long as possible.

For now, he’ll leave her alone.

He closes the door without a word. And you’re left-you’re left behind in the darkness. You don’t understand what’s happening. 

_You hurt him._

_And he did **nothing**._

You stare out the window, trying your best to remain calm. Your lip quivers, and soon hot tears burn a trail down the sides of your face. You’re terrified, your heart beats so fast you’re sure it will give out on you. 

You press your hands against your eyes, feeling the remnants of your makeup. You tug at the manacle snapped around your ankle, the metal looks thick, like it would be nearly impossible to break. Just touching it reveals what you’d already concluded.

You’re not getting away that easy.

You sigh, sliding off the bed with a soft noise. You walk as far from the bedpost as you can. Concluding that it’s long enough for you to reach the bathroom, but not the door, or window.

The window would be a no-go anyways due to the bars, and even if you could reach the door, you’d still be chained up, and you’d still have to make it past your captor. You rub your temples, fingers digging too deep with your frustration. You walk back into the bathroom staring at your reflection in the dirty mirror. Your makeup has smeared around your eyes, and you make an effort to clean it off, using water from the tap, and a small dusty hand towel you find in the shower. You can still see the faintest smears of mascara, and small shimmering flecks of glitter. 

You look drained, and your finger rubs at the bruise on your throat from the syringe. It’s blooming different shades of purple and blue, and it stings when you press your finger into it.

You close your eyes with a sigh of defeat and return to the bed, the chain clinking behind you. You crawl under the covers, eyeing the door warily. You’re determined to remain awake, but soon your eyes grow heavy and you find yourself falling asleep.

Your keep your eyes closed when you wake, hoping that when they open you’ll be in your bedroom, that this will all just be a terrible nightmare. Maybe you’ll have a few texts from Michelle, flecks of glitter stuck to your skin. The sun shining in your face, cool air blowing through the vents. 

You don’t want to open your eyes. Don’t want to dispel the illusion of safety you’d built up in your mind.

You open your eyes.

Pale light filters through the small barred window. You can see small particles of dust floating through the air, a bird chirps just outside the window.

You rise. Stepping as close as you can to the sunlight, chain pulled taut behind you. You close your eyes, embrace the soft warmth of the light touching your face. The delicate skin of your eyelids. 

In your mind you are in a field of wildflowers. Vibrant purple, pink, and yellow blossoms surround you. The sun shines, warm and bright on your skin. In the distance you can hear the burble of a river, cool refreshing water that you can’t wait to stick your feet in. You imagine biting into an apple, sweet juice dripping down your chin, sticky sweetness clinging to your fingers. 

You are safe.

You’ll never be safe again.

A hand on your shoulder sends you hurtling back to earth. You screech, tripping and launching yourself as close to the wall as you can get. Your foot dangles in the air where it is stopped by the chain tethering you to the bed. In the morning light, your captor is a much more gruesome sight. 

He’s pale, silvery blue eyes locked on your every move. He crouches in front of you, hand rising to touch you. You close your eyes when his fingers twist around a lock of hair. Try to return back to your field, to the sunshine and freedom. 

“Look at me.”

Your eyes remain stubbornly closed.

His fingers curl into your hair, tugging your head up, harsh pain nearly blinding you from the hairs tugged loose. 

“I said, look at me.”

You open your eyes. 

You aren’t sure what to look at, what to do with his hand still fisted in your hair. You clench your teeth, bite your tongue to prevent a whimper from slipping out. 

“What...what do you want with me?”

He’s silent for a moment, torn up face shifting into a curious grin.

"Anything. Everything. Whatever I can take.”

You swallow, horror creeping down your spine at what that could mean for you-for your future.

It would be so easy. To just give up, to let your captor do whatever he wants, and hope that he kills you quickly. Something inside of you screams at the indignity of it. Of dying without even trying to fight back. Your fists clench.

”What’s your name?”

He pulls your head back once more, and you strain to keep your eyes locked on his. You hardly notice his other hand creeping its way around your throat.

“My name,” he begins to squeeze, and you feel your lungs constrict, panic pulsing through your veins, “Is Jeff.”

He lets go of your hair, using his other hand to continue choking you. Your vision is blanking out, black spots blurring your vision.

You’re going to die. Your brain is screaming, and you can’t breath and-

He lets go. You fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, dizzy and so, so close to passing out. 

Without a word he turns around and leaves the room, once more leaving you alone in your imprisonment. You don’t understand what’s happening. The implications of your captivity.

You don’t know who Jeff is. Don’t know what he wants. ‘Everything’ doesn’t tell you much. 

A sob tears it’s way out of your throat, and you lay there. Sobbing, defeated. A crumpled mess, on a dirty stone floor. A flower wilting in the darkness, starved of sunlight. 

You’re weak. Weak, and powerless.


	12. WHEN YOU SCREAM IT DRIVES ME NUTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from Final Girl by Graveyardguy and Slayyyter
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: blood, non-con knifeplay except it's not kinky i just don't know the right word for it, non-con kissing

Realistically speaking, Jeff doesn’t know much about the human psyche. He didn’t exactly finish his education. Didn’t really have a chance out there. 

Sometimes he feels like he’s only ever been bruises and blood, and knives tearing through skin. Something half feral, barely human. A beast with a taste for blood. Even when he was normal, just a boy with a mom and a dad and a brother. Thirteen years old, and slowly losing his mind. He barely remembers their names, it’s been so long. He remembers-he remembers Randy. Randy, and Keith, and...Troy? Their names bring a sense of rage boiling beneath his skin, and he has to calm himself down. There’s only one name he can never forget. Like cold water being dumped over his head, his brother, Liu-

The point. He had a point. He doesn’t know anything legitimate about how humans work. Only what he’s learned through his own experiences. 

He knows enough to know this. Everyone has their breaking point. He had one, and (F/N) has one too. He just has to find it, find that limit, and drag her past it. 

He listens to her sobbing through the door, something inside of him purrs in contentment. A filthy, blood drenched thing, thirsting and desperate for her suffering. He wants to hurt her, wants to carve her open and tear and-

Well. There is an idea in that, isn’t there? He twists his knife in his hand, dragging the tip against his finger, blood bubbling to the surface of his skin. If he could...hurt her, just enough to take the edge off, but not to kill her...He stands up, plans half forming in his head, a desire deep in his bones powering his movement.

You’ve barely gotten your breathing under control when the door slams open. You launch yourself backwards with a startled cry, too dizzy to do much more than that. There’s a crazed madness in his eyes, and he’s on top of you in an instant. He sits on your stomach, one hand holding both of your wrists above your head. You kick out with your free leg, but you’re unable to shake him off. He raises his knife with his other hand, pressing it to the skin of your shoulder. The blade sinks in, and burns a trail of fire where he cuts you open, swirling loops and curls decorating your skin. 

You throw you head back, scream and shake, fat tears pouring down the sides of your face. He lifts the blade from your skin, head tilted in consideration, something hungry burning in his eyes. He presses the blade back into your skin, your head slamming into the floor. 

His movements are slower, meticulously carving shapes into your skin. You can’t see through the pain blurring your vision, the sharper flashes of pain where his hand shakes and digs the blade in just a touch deeper. 

He’s heavy, where he sits on your stomach, and you close your eyes, trying to block out the pain, to think of anything but the man tearing your skin open.

Finally, after an eternity of pain, he stops. You crack your eyes open, vision still blurry, sticky blood coating your skin. He leans down and _licks_ at the blood oozing from your wounds. You cringe, wiggling in disgust as he laps at the blood painted on your skin. You flinch when he bites your shoulder, teeth digging into the cuts he’d opened up on your shoulder.

You’re mouth opens, a pained scream tearing from your lips. 

You see him through your blurry, tear-stained vision. A pale white blur, smeared red.

He kisses you again, teeth tugging at your bottom lip in a wordless demand. You taste your blood on his lips and…

Part of you is oddly comforted by it. Your time with Michelle had made you see love differently for a short while. But this? This felt like home. You’d never really known a life where love didn’t hurt. Where love wasn’t bloody and bruised and terrifying. You’d always been scared with Michelle. Scared she’d see you for what you really are, someone who wasn’t meant for her. Her warmth and her kindness. You were always going to be the bruised little girl from your memories. Always hoping for sugar, and always, always receiving salt. 

It didn’t really matter where you were.

So you melt into it. Give in. Let him bite into your skin and mold his lips into your own. 

It’s a return to form in all the ways that matter.

Eventually he rises. The beast inside soothed, the craze of madness lightened. He stares down at you, the blood soaking into your clothes, staining your skin. Part of him feels bad. 

He helps you up. Leads you to the bathroom. You don’t fight. Just numbly follow where he leads you. When he presses you down onto the rim of the bathtub, you’re expecting the worst. 

You’re surprised when he takes the towel, now dampened with water, and begins to meticulously clean the blood off your skin. It stings, where the towel brushes over the cuts in your skin, but soon you’re mostly blood free. 

He leaves you then, and you’re left, confused. 

It was an act of kindness that you hadn’t really expected. It changes the story, changes the picture of him you’d painted in your mind. There is no place for kindness in the half-feral beast of a man you’d seen. 

It makes him, somehow, a little more human. Less the boogeyman, and instead something infinitely more terrifying.

A monster, but a monster with compassion. With some seed of kindness buried deep within.

You decide not to question it, to take what you can get.

Still. You can’t help but wonder what this means. For you. For your future. If there is any softness, any kindness inside of him that you could appeal to.

Maybe, just maybe, you might make it out whole.

Forever changed, but…

Alive.


	13. GO AHEAD AND CRY LITTLE GIRL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: referenced child abuse, child abuse from abusers pov
> 
> (A/N) feel free to skip this chapter if the topic of child abuse bothers you, bc this chapter uhhh really goes into it, and it's not super important to the plot.

Initially, you don’t realize your daughter is missing. 

She’s always been the quiet type. If you can’t hear her, it’s like she doesn’t exist. That’s how it’s always been.

So you’re not surprised when she doesn’t come down for breakfast. The two of you usually eat meals at different times, generally the two of you don’t share meals. Knowing her, she’d probably be in there for most of the day, sleeping off the exhaustion from the night before. 

So you’re surprised to hear a knock on the front door.

When you open the door, you come face to face with a girl, you recognize her as the girl that picked up your daughter last night. You notice the deep bags under her eyes.

Something almost like dread pools in your stomach. 

You know. You know whatever she says, it’s not going to be good, not going to be something you’ll like.

You listen anyways.

“Did (F/N) come home last night?”

Your heart promptly drops into your stomach.

Later, after the police have left, you sit down to think. 

Your daughter is...a person. A nearly grown person. It’s something you’d avoided thinking about. Your daughter is a nearly grown person, and you haven’t given her any reason to keep you in her adult life.

This is a fact.

A part of you wants to feel bad about the way you’d raised her, the violence lingering around every corner, but the past is the past. 

There’s no use being upset about something you cannot change. 

You’ve spent so long smothering your feelings for your child, your daughter. 

God. She looks just like _him._

You look at her and you can’t see anything of yourself in her. Everything, everything she has is from him.

Maybe that’s why you spent so long fucking hating her.

Hating how she was just like her fucking father. So good, so fucking quiet.

Sometimes you wished she’d been like you, maybe-maybe then it would have been easier to love her if she was just as terrible as you were. 

Destroy all her relationships, and burn down the remains, and be just as ugly and horrible as you are. 

He’d left you just as easily as he’d loved you. Finally, finally growing tired of your rage, your cruelty.

He hadn’t known you were pregnant.

You were too...too lost in your own heartache to think about telling him.

Sometimes...sometimes you wonder if he knows. If he ever suspected. If that would have changed anything.

Changed the lies you told her.

It was never her fault.

It’s easier than acknowledging the truth.

It’s only later that night that you cry.

A sort of knowledge burning in the pit of your stomach.

You’re never seeing your daughter again.

Love or hate, it didn’t matter because in the end your possessiveness would always win out over your self loathing.

 _Your_ daughter was gone. 

You feel so goddamn guilty, every lie, every bruise and tear streaked night burning into the backs of your eyelids.

It was easier to let your daughter believe that her father had ever been in her life. That her memories of her father were nothing more than the tattered remains of the few years you’d still lived with your parents.

Before they died.

Before you were left alone with a child you both loved and hated.

You sleep fitfully that night.

You do not dream.

But.

You do remember.

And maybe it’s not a dream, and it’s not a nightmare, but god it feels like one.

She’s nine, and her arms are covered in bruises. Varying shades of blue and purple. All of them shaped like your hands. And when she looks up at you, you know you’re just another monster to her. Something scarier than anything in her closet or under her bed. Scarier than any horror movie monster could ever be.

A monster that was never supposed to be.

A monster shaped like a mother.


	14. THE WEAPON YOU MADE OF MY HEART

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from Afraid of the Dark by Phildel
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: murder, blood mention, knife mention

For a while things settle into an odd type of peace. He only comes into your room to bring you food, and, after you’d ever so hesitantly asked, a clean pair of underwear. 

You don’t ask where he got them. Aren’t sure you really want to know.

Still. The last few days, things have been more peaceful than you were expecting. 

It makes you nervous, sets something inside of you on edge. Waiting for him to get angry, to snap and revert back into something borderline feral.

What happens is infinitely worse.

You’re half asleep when you hear the door open, something heavy being dropped at the foot of the bed. You flinch, sitting up and looking at Jeff where he stands by the door. He gestures for you to stand, and you do.

He walks over to you, pulling you towards him. Towards the thing he’d thrown on the floor, that is so clearly a human being.

You aren’t sure what he wants. Not sure what is going on in his head. He grabs your hands, maneuvering your bodies until the two of you are kneeling on the ground in front of the unconscious woman. His body is solid line of heat pressed against your back, and you’re nervous. Nervous, and afraid, and a little uncomfortable. You flinch when you see the knife in his hand, the light glinting off the edge of the blade.

He presses it into your hand. 

You almost drop it from the shock of it, “I don’t-I don’t understand?”

He grabs your hand, closing it around the blade. Laying his head on your shoulder.

“I want you to kill her.”

You splutter, turning to look at him.

“No. I-I can’t, what the fuck-”

He tightens his grip on your hand, steel entering his eyes.

“I said, I _want_ you to _kill_ her _._ ” 

Something solid lodges in your throat, and suddenly the warmth against your back is as oppressive as his stare. You look at the woman, the knife in your hand and think:

_Can I do this?_

No you think. No I fucking can’t, but you feel your body moving without your control until the knife is pressed against her chest. There’s a block of ice in your chest, and you feel the tears forming, but-

You know there’s no way of getting out of this. He’ll keep you here until you do what he wants, and at least-at least she’s unconscious. 

Maybe if you just-just close your eyes. If you close your eyes, you can pretend this isn’t happening.

You jerk the knife forward and-

Your eyes open.

It’s a little hard to see but...the knife is...in her chest. You put that there. You did that. 

(For a moment you think-no one will ever hurt me again. It makes you feel simultaneously relieved and guilty.)

You pull the knife out, eyeballing the blood on the blade, feel the kiss Jeff places against your shoulder. The way his hand has lid down to your elbow, rather than the near bone-crushing grip he’d had on your wrist.

Something in you shatters and-

You stab her. Again, and again, and again. The blood-hot and a vicious red-splatters across your face, staining your dress even further. You don’t know if you’re crying or laughing.

The knife is taken from your hands. You don’t look away as he begins carving the woman’s body up further. 

You feel overwhelmed. You can’t tell if you’re horrified or not. You should be-god you hope you are. 

You just. You just killed someone. You close your eyes and-god you’re so tired. 

You don’t open your eyes when you hear the squelching sounds of the body being stabbed. Not when you hear him crawl his way towards you. Not when he presses his hands against your face.

Not when he kisses you.

You wish you could summon up the anger from the beginning. Hate that you’ve given in at the first sight of kindness. 

You know he’s going to hurt you. That there’s no way this will end well for you. 

But...his fingers are so gentle where they’ve curled into your hair. And he isn’t hurting you now.

You can tell he’s pleased with you. Pleased with the blood on your hands. Splattered on your face. Staining your clothes and the inside of your mouth.

The rationalizations you make, to make yourself feel better. 

He’s not hurting you right now, isn’t taking his anger out on you. 

So this is okay. Better than the relationship you had with your mother.

Better the stranger that has no reason to be kind, than the familiarity that was supposed to love you, and didn’t.

Better to have no expectations at all.

Enjoy this brief respite while it lasts.


	15. SINK YOUR TEETH INTO SOMETHING SWEET

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Poison Apple by Echo Black
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: blood mention, self harm (technically?)

Part of you is burning to know what Jeff did with the body. In the back of your mind you imagine her, what she may have been like alive. The dark brown hair curling around her face. Her eyes had been closed the entire time, but you imagine they were green, maybe. You struggle to connect her face to your memories, and realize, finally, that she’d been your 7th grade English teacher.

You can't remember her name, can’t remember more than the few fleeting memories of her classroom. The bright purple bookshelf in the corner of her classroom. The christmas lights hung across the ceiling.

There's no way for Jeff to have known, but somehow the familiarity of it all makes you feel ill. The rush of power sizzling out. You stumble to the bathroom, just in time.

You spread out on the cool tile. Your heart pounds in your chest, a great echoing thing. You wash your mouth out, the water crisp and cool in your cupped hands. You scrub the blood off your face, leaning over the edge of the bathtub in an effort to wash your hair.

After you're done you feel a little more human. Force yourself to stand, crawl to the bed. You're exhausted, your energy slowly depleted over the last few days. You weren't sure what it was about Jeff, but you were pretty sure he was a nocturnal creature. 

You curl under the blankets, try desperately not to think of the kiss from earlier. The way it burned, the way you'd melted into his touch, desperate and needy for affection.

He'd been _pleased_.

_You_ did that.

It was practically immoral.

Your fingers rise to your lips, your heartbeat accelerating at just the thought of it. 

You hate him, you think.

You hate that you aren't sure.

Something in your head shattered, you think. Crossed lines you'd vowed never to cross. Mixing signals and reactions. You weren't supposed to like the way he touched you. Weren't supposed to enjoy the taste of blood on your tongue.

He was a monster. One of many.

What did that make you?

By the time he returns, you'd already fallen asleep. He'd dumped the body back in the bed he'd snatched her from. He makes his way into her room, carefully crouching next to the bed. 

He grabs her hand, comparing the size of it to his own. Her hands are-small, but long-fingered. 

_Pianist fingers,_ he thinks.

Sometimes. Sometimes he remembers things. Things from his human life. They're usually vague. Snatches of phrases, an especially catchy commercial, the color of his mother's hair.

He thinks-he thinks maybe his father had pianist fingers. Or maybe his mother. His brother? 

There are moments he can never forget. That first time waking up as someone...someone new. Hair black and skin pale as snow.

_Lips_ _red as blood._

The first time he killed. His mother-his father-his brother.

_Go to sleep._

It echoes in his head, the gurgling sounds of their dying breaths. The blood, equally warm and chilling.

He can't figure out if-if he regrets it or not. If he regrets anything he's done since. 

He tosses her hand down on the bed. Walks over to the other bedroom. Stares at himself in the bathroom. He can see where the slits in the sides of his face have begun to mend.

To heal. Somehow. Despite the odds.

He takes his knife, forcing the skin to resplit. Blood oozes from the wounds, and rubs his fingers into it, dragging the blood across his face, down the sides of his neck.

He doesn't cry.


	16. YOU POISON WITH YOUR LOVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Swoon by Beach Weather
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: murder, uhhh emotional trauma

When he kisses you, it makes you feel warm. Like you're burning up from the inside out. A raging inferno prepared to leave you a pile of smoldering ashes.

It's terrifying.

You've grown used to it.

You aren't completely sure how long you've been here. Though your best guess lands you at a little over two weeks. 

Part of you wishes you were free. 

Part of you hopes you're never found.

You think about your mother, think about Jeff, think about Saturn devouring his children whole and decide that maybe love was always meant to hurt.

It's late, and you're not quite asleep yet when you hear the front door open. You don't react, used to Jeff being consistently active during the night. 

You're staring out the window when the door opens.

You turn your head.

It's not Jeff.

You flinch, scrambling backwards at the sight of your mother. You aren't sure if this is a dream or an illusion or if, somehow, this was real.

Because there she stood. Hair pulled back, face tired, hands dangling limply at her sides.

You aren't sure she's real until she speaks your name, voice barely a whisper.

"(F/N)?"

You don't run into her arms. Don't stagger your way to her side, choking back tears. You stare at her, silently trying to process the fact that you'd been found. That you were somehow found by your mother, which means that you weren't even far from home.

She steps forward, hands twitching at her sides, and you resist the urge to flinch. One pretty hair comb doesn't erase the years of abuse you'd suffered at her hands. 

Finding you doesn't cancel out the years of terror.

Soon she steps close enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, her hand rises to caress your face.

This time you flinch, head jerking backwards out of her grip. You see her hand clench, then fall. She stares at the manacle clamped around your ankle.

"You should go."

She looks up at you, expression subdued. A tired sadness painted across her face.

"Do you want me to leave?" Her voice has a sincere quality to it. A tenderness you can't quite decipher. 

Making her leave could mean risking your chance at freedom. Making her stay, making her try and get you out could result in both your deaths. Or worse, you trade one prison cell for another.

"Yes."

She nods, "Alright but, before I go, I need to tell you something." Something in her tone sets you on edge.

"It's about your father."

Your throat tightens.

"All those years I told you he left ...it was a lie. He didn't even know you existed."

You freeze, mind going blank, vision gone red.

"What...What do you mean, he doesn't know I exist."

Your mother, no, a stranger sits before you. The picture of suffering, her face a twisted expression of sadness, worn like an Ill-fitting suit.

"I mean, your father and I broke up before I even knew I was pregnant with you."

You tense, fingers curling into the edge of your dress.

Your mind blanks, and you open your eyes to see your mother on the floor, your hands around her throat.

"You mean to tell me...you destroyed my life…abused me over a lie?"

She doesn't fight you as your hands tighten around her throat.

You shudder, a sob catching in your throat, hot tears dripping onto her face.

"Fuck you. I fucking hate you, so much, do you understand that? Do you understand what you did to me?"

Your nails dig into her skin, your vision a scarlet wall of rage.

"I spent my entire life, so fucking terrified of you. Spent my entire life praying that one day you would love me. That one day my existence would stop being an inconvenience to you. All for a lie."

You release her throat.

"What else did you lie to me about? How much of my life is a lie?"

She remains silent, the marks around her throat an angry red.

"ANSWER ME!"

You're screaming in her face, too lost in your rage and devastation to duck into your shell. To soften your edges.

"I lied to you about a lot," her voice was croaky. She doesn't say anything else. Your hands return to her throat.

She doesn't fight.

You squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze. You're screaming, a sob stuttering in your chest as you try desperately to calm down.

You don't realize your mother is dead at first.

You notice that lack of a pulse fluttering against your fingertips. The way her eyes have glazed. The purple tint of her face. 

You let go. Press your ear against her chest.

Silence.

You scramble backwards. Some terrible combination of horrified and delighted. 

This time you have no one to blame but yourself. 

You can't say Jeff threatened you. Can't pretend that this murder was anything more than pure animalistic rage.

Something inside of cracks, shifts, changes.

You look up and see Jeff leaning in the doorway. His smile slightly more solemn than usual. He walks over to you, sliding down to sit next to you.

"It feels good, huh?"

You sniffle, understanding what he's asking, too guilty to reply.

He takes your silence as an answer anyways. 

He takes your hand.


	17. WE'LL LOVE AND WE'LL HATE AND WE'LL DIE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Stockholm Syndrome by Muse
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: suicide, blood mention

You don't know how to feel. Your mother is dead, her body dragged into the living room. You stare at your hands and hope for clarity, hope for absolution.

There's no blood, but you can still feel it coating your skin.

_"It feels good, huh?"_

His words echo in your ears, and you want to say _no. No jeff it feels terrible._

You've never been a particularly good liar. No reason to start now.

You think more about your mother's last words. How she lied to you. For years, and you never knew. Assumed there was something so inherently wrong with you to make your father leave.

What a fool you were. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling desperately at the strands.

_"I lied to you about a lot"_

_"I lied to you about a lot"_

**_"I lied to you about a lot"_**

You don't realize you're crying again, until your hands are gently detangled from your hair, a clean patch of his sweater used to mop up your tears.

Suddenly you hate him just a little bit less.

He was still a monster. Something cruel and ferocious. Who forced you to kill. Who cut you up and gained pleasure from it. Who drugged you and kidnapped you. Who killed your best friend. Stalked you from afar.

Who found something inside of him that could express kindness.

For you.

You're mind scrambles to make any kind of sense of the last few hours. You're exhausted. 

You fall limp into his arms, his sweater soaking up your tears. You don't want him to speak, just the solid warmth and comfort he could provide for you.

You fall asleep.

He scoops her up, places her on the bed. Leaves.

Something about her breakdown, the angry exhausted tears that had slid down her face. Something about that had felt too familiar for his comfort. The betrayal in her voice.

_"What else did you lie to me about?"_

The trembling horror in her voice. Her echoing sobs. It makes him think of-

_He's thirteen. He's in the bathroom. His tears sting the vivid scarlet cuts in his face. But his smile doesn't fade._

_He's beautiful. He'll never be unhappy again, always smiling, always happy._

_His mother, her face a painting of horror._

_"What's wrong mommy? Aren't I beautiful?"_

_"Yes son." A LIE. "L-let me go get daddy so he can see your face."_

_"Get the gun"_

_Betrayal._

_The knife in his hand, the only thing he can trust._

_"Mommy, you lied._ _"_

_The blood, warm and thick. Coating his skin, staining his clothes. A smile for mommy, and one for daddy too._

_And then._

_Liu._

_His brother._

_The knife._

_The blood._

_"Just go to sleep."_

He shakes his head. Clenches his fist. Storms out of the cabin into the slowly easing darkness of the forest. He catches the briefest snatch of sunlight streaming through the trees.

The sun returning for another day. The world still turning even though her life has just been changed. 

It had been like that for him too.

He was young. Too young. Surviving on scraps. Killing and stealing where he could. His smile stayed, but the happiness left just as quickly. Replaced by rage, confusion, loneliness.

Somehow making it to nineteen. Mostly unscathed. Stuck in a life he wasn't sure he cared for anymore.

Then. Slenderman.

A deal.

He never makes it to twenty.

He kills without feeling. Without passion. His catchphrase like ash beneath his teeth. Bloody smiles that ring hollowly inside his head.

He finds companionship in the others. Also desperate, frozen forever, servants for a civilized beast. An insatiable appetite. 

Then.

Her.

A flame. Passion, fear, a heart beating once more.

The world filled with color once more.

Love.

She wakes up slowly. Gets up, minds the chain. Stands in front of the mirror. Her fist balls up, and she punches the glass, shattering her reflection in a million different pieces. 

A million girls stare back at her, all of them strangers.

She takes the largest chunk. Hides it beneath her pillow.

She's realized something. Realized that love-love will never be enough. She can love Jeff as much as he wants. Can give him anything, everything she has. Everything she is. 

But it won't matter. 

Eventually, he'll grow cold. Tired of a toy playing the same tricks. 

Eventually she'll become boring.

Eventually she'll have no use.

It's better, she thinks, not to waste any time.

When he comes to her, she smiles. A breath of spring, Persephone returned to the underworld. She pulls him close, hands fisting in his jacket. 

She reaches behind him, grabs the glass. 

Kisses him.

The first time she's done it herself. The first time she's taken the affection he so willingly grants.

And then.

The glass slides through her throat easily. 

The smile on his face fades, as much as it can. She gurgles, choking on her own blood. A drop splattering across his cheek.

He tries to stop the bleeding but-

It doesn't work. 

Her eyes close.

He can see himself in the reflection of the glass jutting out from her throat.

He grips it in his hand. Pulls it from her throat, tucks it into his pocket.

The world gone grey once more. 

He tucks her into the bed.

Leaves.

It never would have worked out anyways.

**END PART ONE.**


	18. A MONSTER BORN I'M FADING MORE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Unravel (covered) by The Unknown Songbird

You spend a long time drifting.

Every once in awhile you get snatches of memories. A sparkling blue dress, a knife with a gleaming silver blade. A dirty mirror. Hearts painted in blood.

A smile. Too wide to be normal. Sometimes the smiling boy in you memory appears almost kind.

These are moments you covet. Kindness, it seems, was something you were starved of.

Remembering things is hard. Makes your head hurt.

You close your eyes, continue drifting.

Eventually, change.

A voice.

A hand pulling you out of the water.

"You could move on you know." 

You open your eyes, the figure standing before you is pale. Hood pulled low over their face, disguising their identity. Their hand is cold in your own.

"I could?"

"Yes", the voice whispers, "she's waiting for you."

"She?"

Suddenly, you remember just a little bit more. 

"Mariah."

They nod.

You're tempted but…

"You said I _could_ move on. Are there other options?"

They smile, a curling of lips that doesn't comfort you.

"You could go back. But you'll never be able to come back here. Never be able to die. To rest. To move on."

You think about it. Think about moving on, resting. Finally at peace. It's an enticing prospect and yet…

You shake your head. "There's too much left out there for me. I don't think I could forgive myself if I don't go back." 

They smile once more, hand rising to cup your face.

"That's what I thought you'd say."

They kiss your forehead, and a light-too bright shines in your eyes. You close your eyes, opening them when the phantom touch disappears.

You're back in the cabin. And yet, it's different. 

The room has been stripped, yellow police tape surrounding the pool of blood on the mattress, the stain on the floor.

You walk into the bathroom flinching when you see your reflection. Your previously (H/C) hair is now a pale white, floating delicately around your shoulders. Your eyes as well. The color leached from your eyes.

Whatever you are now, it's not human.

You pull a chunk of glass from the mirror and move on. 

You've never seen the rest of the cabin, and you take your time exploring. There's another room, probably where Jeff slept. If he slept. The rest of the cabin is just as empty as your room. 

You touch the door handle, hesitating. Twist and-

You're free.

You pull the police tape out of the way, not bothering to shut the door behind you.

A part of you is amazed because-

 _You_ _recognize this patch of forest._

It's almost ridiculous.

You walk home.

The front door is unlocked, and you step inside. Walk up the stairs, head to your room. You're things have been rifled through, but it's still your room.

It's still yours. Yet. It's different. It feels more like a tomb then a home. The bedroom of a dead girl.

You wish you could remember more of it. Wish your memories weren't so scrambled. You close your eyes, sigh.

You dig out a back pack from the closet, grab some clothes, a brush. The stash of money hidden beneath your mattress. You aren't sure where you'll go, but you know you can't stay.

You have one more stop though.

You walk through the forest, to the high school. Stare out at the students having lunch. Something in you twitches, itches. A hunger you don't recognize burning in the pit of your stomach.

You push it downdowndown and look. 

Now Michelle sits by herself.

You want to talk to her. To hold her. To love her. 

But you can't. You'll never die, and eventually Michelle will grow old. Will die. Will move on. You can't do that to her. Can't leave her pining over a half dead seventeen year old for the rest of her life.

At least this way she'll move on. Find love, a family. She'll grow and change and have a bright, promising future.

You spare one more glance, turn, and leave.

There's a tugging in your chest. You think it's time to


	19. HEAVEN'S GRIEF BRINGS HELL'S RAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: blood mention

His room is just how he left it. The windows covered up, leaving no cracks for light to seep through.

Home sweet home.

He doesn't cry.

He kicks his shoes off, puts his knife on the bedside table. A single picture, torn down the middle, a golden mask, and a bloodied shard of glass go in the drawer.

He doesn't look at them. Doesn't cry.

He goes to bed.

Life becomes routine once more. Wake up, eat, leave, kill, return, eat, sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

Occasionally he spends time with the others. A joke with Ben, a meal with Toby. A quiet moment in the infirmary with EJ.

It doesn't do much, but it helps.

He isn't sure why he feels this way. Why he's feeling things he hasn't felt since before…

Since before Slenderman.

He thinks, maybe he should talk to him, ask him what he thinks. But he has a feeling that it wouldn't end well for him.

Once again he wonders what he is now. He's not human. But he's not….he's not a ghost like Ben or Sally, and he's not some kind of non-human entity like LJ or Puppeteer.

He's somewhere in between. Not dead, and not alive. Human, but not human.

Slenderman doesn't like questions. 

He needs to talk to Jane.

He knocks on her door, finds himself edging near nervousness. Him and Jane are...he wouldn't say friends, but they didn't hate each other. Didn't really _like_ each other on the best of days, but that's besides the point. 

_Jane_ _knows things._

This is common knowledge around the mansion. If you have questions you aren't comfortable asking the boss, you go to Jane.

If you're respectful, she may just give you answers.

He opens the door when she answers him, poking his head through the doorway. 

Jane is on the bed, Sally curled into her side, her bear loosely cradled in her arms. A part of him softens.

Sally is...a child. It's something he gets stuck on a lot, the fact that she's so little, that she'll always be so little. The fact she didn't even have to make a deal with Slenderman makes it worse for the sole fact that Sally will never get to grow up. Not because of Slenderman or his powers. But because she was murdered, was brutalized. Was a defenseless child.

He sits on the edge of the bed, brushes her hair out of her face. Tucks the blanket more securely around her sleeping form. 

For the most part, everyone in the mansion had a soft spot for Sally. Not everyone knew what had happened to her, but they knew that if they ever made her cry they were going to get the shit kicked out of them.

He makes sure to be quiet when he speaks.

"I've been wondering...what...what are we? You and me and the others? The ones that...aren't quite human, but aren't really anything else?"

She looks at him for a moment, head tilted to the side in thought, hand idly running through Sally's hair.

"You know Jeff, I've wondered that myself, and I honestly don't have an answer for you. Whatever we are, we are because of Slenderman. Trust me I have looked into it but...if there are any answers, they're being hidden. And only Slenderman himself would know where."

He nods, thanking her for what little she could give him, closing the door behind him as he leaves.

He's confused, and, frankly, kind of upset. He heads to his room, pulls his sweater off. There are things Slenderman hasn't told them. He understood that, and honestly hadn't really cared before. He knew what he needed to know, and this was a mostly symbiotic relationship.

Jeff stayed alive, had somewhere to stay, companionship, and Slenderman… Slenderman got to eat.

Still, he's feeling things he hasn't felt since before his deal, and it all started with (F/N).

He doesn't know what to do about that, doesn't know how he can hide it. If he can pretend to be the same, near emotionless man he'd been before he left.

Eventually, someone will figure out. Will tell Slenderman, and then...then that will be it. 

There were so few rules for the occupants of the mansion. 

And Jeff had broken a major one.

Had broken it the moment (F/N) had seen his face, and lived.

She was dead now though. At her own hand even. So...maybe he'd be okay? He'd never dealt with a situation like this before. No one had. He didn't know what to do.

And this? This wasn't something he could talk to Jane about. Was something he couldn't tell anyone. His dirty little secret. 

He doesn't think about the blood stained shard of mirror. The way it had looked, sticking from her throat. The sound it made as he had pulled it free. The numbness that had enveloped him as he made his way back home.

The scar on his hand from gripping the glass too tightly.

What a terrible reminder of what he'd lost. It's almost funny really.

He goes to sleep.

His dreams are hazy, tangled memories, the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin. The curve of her smile.

He hates it. Hates her. Loves her.

How clever she was, even in the end.

She'd died with a smile on her face, something soft, relieved.

She'd escaped. Made her own out.

Something inside of him, bitter and angry thinks of what good it did, _'and she dug her own grave while she was at it'_

He pulls the blanket over his head, a child hiding from imaginary monsters, and goes back to sleep.


	20. I HUNT FOR YOU WITH BLOODIED FEET

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Howl by Florence + The Machine
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: blood mention, stabbing, blood consumption

You aren't sure how long you've been walking. A day? Two days? You stop, find a bench and sit down. You rub your temples and think. 

You can only remember so much. Vague, blurry impressions of real people. Key players in your story. Three women, one man.

Your mother.

Mariah.

Michelle.

Jeff.

You go down the line, trying to connect anything, any memory froth the depths of your brain. You remember this, two hands and a throat, bruises piled on top of bruises, a golden hair comb. Blood, so much you think you're drowning. A scarlet dress, a photo, torn in half. Michelle's smile, your first kiss, a delicate white mask, her hands and the curve of her back, the thick braids she wore her hair in. 

Another smile, wider, frightening. Unblinking eyes, a raspy voice, a thousand kisses, a text, hands-calloused, kind-cruel a knife. A towel. A single barred window and dark hair and-

Your hand raises to your shoulder, your throat.

Scars. His name, jaggedly carved into your skin in a fit of madness. 

A shard of glass, sliding through your skin, a thousand shattered, scattered girls reflecting back at you. Your blood flowing, too much too fast, a hand presses against the wound-

Darkness.

You pull your sweatshirt forward, stare at the bloodstained fabric of your dress. You'd wondered...now you know.

You try not to think about it.

Stare at the scar on your hand. Think about love that hurts, and lovely pain. 

Stand up, keep walking.

Eventually you stop again, pain burning through your foot. Dig a chunk of glass out of your heel. Stare at the blood that oozes free of the wound. Slide the sandal back on, keep walking.

The strap busts the next day. You throw them away, keep walking. Ignore the pain in your feet, the blood crusted to your skin.

Eventually you wonder where you're even going. Why you've bothered coming back. There's a tugging in your chest, a thread, a needle to a compass pulling you ever forward. Wherever you're going isn't strictly north. Still, you keep walking, keep searching for your northern star.

You stop at the edge of a deep forest, deathly silent, and you get flashes of a memory. Another forest, eyes that lingered, a boy in white and black, staring, always looking, watching, longing. A hunger that never ceases. You're finger rubs the edge of the glass in your pocket, a smear of blood when you pull the digit free. 

You step inside.

It's darker inside, the foliage blocking out the sun. Something about the silence is unsettling, and you pretend you don't feel the eyes burning into the back of your head.

Look to the side, a tree, a note. White paper, a man with no face, frantic words scrawled, always watching always watching always watching. You ignore the note, keep walking. The tugging in your chest less intense with each step, your destination ever closer.

A hand grabs your shoulder, and you flinch. There's a man wearing a mask, delicately painted features against a stark white mask. 

You see the gun in his hand and it feels like instinct when you dig the shard of glass into his side. He grunts as you pull it free, stab again and again. A hunger boiling deep inside of you at the sight of his blood, something monstrous and foreign, only growing as he fights back.

Eventually he falls to the ground, dead or unconscious, you aren't quite sure. You fall to your knees in the dirt in front of him. You look to the glass in your hand, and slowly lick the blood off.

Suddenly you feel ravenous, and you pull the man's shirt up for direct access to the wounds you'd given him. You place the edge of the glass at the top of his chest, digging down slightly as you drag the tip to his navel.

Something in you balks at the idea of licking the blood straight off him, a lingering discomfort with the idea of touching anyone like that. 

You think it's silly to be nervous, decide to scoop up the blood instead. 

His blood is warm where it coats your fingers and you hesitantly scoop up more.

You hadn't realized how hungry you were until now, until you were frantically scooping blood off a strange man's chest, and desperately sucking it down.

Eventually you've taken your fill, blood drying on your hands and face as you leave. You don't bother stuffing your hair back down where it floats behind you, pull off your sweater completely leaving it in the dirt behind you, shard of glass clutched in your hand, prepared for any other would be attackers.

Soon you come up to a great building, dark and twisted, like something out of a movie. You walk inside, ignore the cobwebs and dust for the sound of voices.

There's a group of people arguing in what you assume is a living room. A boy in green, and a girl with a clock for an eye and…

Dark hair, wide unblinking eyes, a carved smile…

"You."


	21. TALK SO PRETTY BUT YOU'RE HEART GOT TEETH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Teeth by 5 seconds of summer
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: cannibalism

At first he thinks you are a dream. A mirage, a ghost. Think that this, whatever it is, can't be real.

But Ben and Clockwork both turn at the sound of you voice, and that cements it for him.

Somehow, this is real. This bloodstained, faded ghost is you. Your hair floats around your shoulders, shockingly white. Your once (E/C) eyes were now blank as well, pale white orbs staring out from your face. There's blood on your mouth, your hands, your dress, your feet. 

You step forward, and he nearly flinches at the sight of the scar on your throat. The shard of glass clenched in your fist, blood sliding down the edge where it's dug into your skin.

It feels like everything else disappears, everything but you. But your eyes and your skin and the dried blood on your chin. The dress, the dress, the dress. Snow white and rose red. Soon you're close enough to touch.

You smile at him, smile smile smile and then-

The glass is in his stomach. He jerks when you pull it out, his hand rising to the bloody hole in his jacket. It's not a particularly deep wound, enough to hurt but nowhere near enough to kill.

You're trying to hurt him. The glass slashes his arm when he raises it to defend himself, blood splattering the floor around them. 

Your smile has become borderline deranged, a strangled giggle escaping your lips as you continue attacking him. He can't do much but attempt to block your attacks, he realizes, visualizing the knife he'd left on his bed. 

You swing, and he grabs the glass, cutting into his hands as he holds it, ripping it from your grip, tossing it to the floor. He's confused, dangerously so, but part of him-

Part of him _gets it._

This is release, catharsis, revenge.

You punch him, and he grabs your hand, your blood mingling, as he pushes you down to the floor. 

You dissolve, and he watches the fury fade from you eyes, the tears dripping down your face. Ben looks like he wants to say something, but backs off with a look. 

Clockwork isn't so easy to convince.

"Hey, uh, what the fuck?"

He looks at her, something like danger reading on his face as she advances, pulling you up. 

She looks at you, eyes memorizing each detail of your form. The ghostly white hair and thick knotted scar on your throat.

The barely visible scarring on your skin, a name written in pain. Your tattered, torn clothing and blood stained feet.

Something in her eyes hardens then, as she looks over at him. She scoops you up, pressing your head into her shoulder as she carries you away. 

There's only two places she could be heading. The infirmary with EJ, or to Jane. He isn't quite sure who's going to give him more shit for this.

You come to in a bed. There's bandages around your feet, and you realize someone's changed your clothing. 

You look up, and there's a man. A boy? You can't quite tell from the mask covering most of his face. His skin is a faded grey, his mask a deep blue. Dark ink black tears stream down the sides of his face as he chews.

You aren't quite sure, but you think it might be a kidney.

The coppery scent of the blood makes your stomach grumble. You look over at the bed across from you, spotting the man from earlier. Bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.

You don't look at the man as he sits by your side. His voice is quiet, and you choose to stare at the blood smeared around his lips instead, still a deep glossy red. 

"Do you want some?" You stare at the organ in his hand, half eaten, flesh torn where his teeth had ripped into it. Your mouth waters and you nod. 

He presses it into your hand, and you stare for a moment before bringing it to your lips. You bite down and-it's good. Warm and filling and-you already feel much better than you had earlier. Than the bone deep tiredness, the frantic energy rushing through your veins. 

You find yourself settled right in between the two extremes, balanced.

You don't realize you've finished until another organ is placed in your hands.

Eventually, your hunger fulfilled, you turn to stare at your silent companion. The silence is soothing, a reprieve from the harsh sobbing that had filled the last few hours. 

"What's your name?" 

You startle at the question, and for a split second you can't quite remember your own name. But then-

"...(F/N). My name is (F/N)."

He nods, responding with his own name. 

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

You close your eyes, dig deep and-it feels like every time you reach for the memories they slip further from your fingers. Ever fleeing and distant, the only constant is Jeff. 

"No. I think... I think sometimes I can remember but right now I can really only remember Jeff." 

He nods, standing and walking to the door, you hear soft murmuring from the doorway. You hear your name mentioned, but you choose to ignore them, instead fiddling with the bandages around your hands. 

You start peeling one away, only to stop abruptly at the sound of the door shutting. You hastily stuff your hand under the blanket to hide the loosened bandages, but it's not Jack standing at your side this time. 

It's a woman, her skin almost violently pale, hair long and dark. Her lips and eyes a deep black.

She could be your exact opposite you think, blank white orbs staring into soulless black. 

She's lovely.

She smiles softly as she helps you out of the bed.

"My name is Jane, I'm going to help you get changed and then we'll talk alright?" You nod as he leads you into her bedroom. There's a young girl sleeping on the bed, a teddy bear cradled in her arms. You try not to stare at the blood staining her hair.

You strip out of the large black shirt you'd been dressed in, slide grey sweatpants down your legs. You fold both pieces of clothes, placing them neatly on the corner of the bed. 

You take the clothes Jane hands you, pulling on a thick black sweater and a soft pair of leggings. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, careful to not disturb the sleeping child as you pull on a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jane quietly shuts the door behind her as the two of you leave. 

She talks quickly explaining where you are and who you were meeting. You pass a few people in the hallway, each stranger than the one before. 

The same could be said of yourself you think snidely, willing your hair to stop floating behind you. Eventually the two of you stop in front of a large set of doors. The sight of them sends a deep sense of fear shooting down your spine, even Jane seems to be discomforted by them.

Or perhaps, you think, perhaps it is not the doors that are so frightening, and it is instead whatever mystery lies within them.

What ghoul haunts the room beyond, leaving the air thick and heavy, the hair on your arms standing on edge.

She presses her hand against your face, pushing until you can look her in the eyes, palm warm against your cheek.

"You'll need to talk to Him. I can't go in with you but...you should be okay, and I'll wait out here for you alright?"

You feel numb, a fear you've never known before bursting through every vein, every cell and atom in your body. Whatever is in there-you can't face it alone. 

But you have to.

"Who-" you choke over the words, "Who is he?"

Jane opens her mouth to respond when the click of a lock being turned startles the both of you into silence.

Time's up.


	22. IT'S IN YOUR EYES YOU FUCKING LIAR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Tear Me to Pieces by Meg Myers
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mention of child abuse, mentions of child death, blood

The creature sitting across from you is terrifying. You look and find only a lack of humanity. A monster, a creature from some hellish dimension. 

Your heart thuds in your chest, hands clenched in your borrowed clothing. You try not to look at him, try to ignore the almost painful buzzing in your skull.

You can't ignore him for much longer.

_**"Child."**_

You flinch, eyes flicking over to stare up at the space just above his head.

A hand reaches to take your chin, tilting your head to stare down at the hollow dips where their eyes should be. The buzzing is louder, and you resist the urge to gag, swallow down bile. 

_**"Why have you come?"**_

You swallow, flinching as the being pulls their hand away from your face. 

"I felt a...a pull. I followed it and it lead me here."

Their head tilts, satisfaction changing their feature. The pounding in your head begins to ease.

_**"I see. Then I will offer you a deal."**_

A chill races down your spine, and you grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.

_**"Don't worry so my dear! I assure you should you choose to accept my offer it will benefit you far more than me."**_

Somehow you don't believe him.

_**"You can stay here, remain eternally young, but...you must kill for me, in return. You could be safe, could benefit from companionship."**_

You want to say no. Want to run far away, but you have a sick feeling that if you decline his...generous offer, you won't leave this room alive. You will die where you sit if you refuse.

You swallow. 

"Alright."

He seems pleased and your headache disappears completely.

_**"Good! You can learn whatever you need from the others, and someone will help you find your room."**_

You're hands shake as you smile up at them, desperate to leave the room.

_**"One thing, please, before you leave,"**_

Your heart drops into your stomach.

_**"Your attack against Jeff seemed...personal. Is there a story behind that?"**_

You don't know why, but you have a feeling the truth will get you killed. You don't like Jeff, but whatever punishment this being deigns to hand out will surely be much more than you want.

_Lie._

"He killed my friend, and then...he killed me." 

You don't mention the weeks spent chained to a bed, the cabin and the window and the lives you'd taken. He accepts your answer, and waves you off.

You breathe a sigh of relief as you exit the room, grateful that Jane had waited for you. You walk to her on trembling legs, collapsing onto the seat next to her. She places a hand on your back, steadying you, drawing you back down to earth. 

You want to drown, want to claw your way out of your skin. You want to die. Maybe.

You can't do that. Instead you stand, ask Jane about the rules, about the people, about your room.

Jane fills you in on everything she knows, that the being had a name (Slenderman,) that there were many other people that lived here, but few empty rooms.

_"We think maybe the house is a part of him. That it grows when more people come, that the stronger he grows, the more luxurious the mansion becomes."_

She shows you to a room, tells you that she'll get some clothes from the others until you can get her own. 

One thing sticks out to you.

_"There are few rules, but the ones there are, are strictly enforced...we're not supposed to interact with humans. We kill them and that's it."_

You can't tell anyone. Can't speak of the darkness, and the shackle you still feel around your ankle. About the phone call and the picture and the dress.

There's only one person you could talk to about it, and you're pretty sure you hate him.

You're staring at the ceiling when you hear a knock on your door. The sound of it opening, someone walking to stand next to you.

You only look over when they touch you.

It's Jeff.

You punch him in the still-healing wound in his stomach, launching yourself across the room-away from him.

_"Don't touch me."_

You don't sound human. 

You sound like someone that can't be hurt. A pillar of strength.

He opens his mouth to speak. A flash of guilt building in his eyes.

_"Get out."_

He does. 

You're still angry, still infuriated by your captivity, but...it feels good. To be able to tell him to leave, and have him listen to you.

You close your eyes, and you're back in the room. Clawing at the shackle around your ankle, slashing at everything you could get your hands on. You see the woman you killed, see your mother, and Mariah, see the blood dripping from your shoulder.

You trace the letters on your skin. The scars left behind, skin raised. Your wounds healed.

_J E F F_

_You hate him you hate him you hate him you-_

You wake up.

The girl from before is staring down at you, her arms loosely coiled around a small teddy bear. Her green eyes bright and filled with curiosity. You blink, croaking out a hello.

She smiles, and you try to ignore the blood in her hair. "Hello! My name's Sally! Your hair is pretty!"

You smile fingers curling around a single floating lock of hair. You push yourself up, bones creaking with the movement.

_The blood drips down the sides of her face, is matted in her hair-why is she covered in blood-_

You smile, tell her your name, answer her questions. Try not to stare at the blood. 

She pauses, seems to feel your eyes on the blood. Something in her eyes dims, rage digging its claws into her mind.

"I wake up like this every morning, it doesn't matter how many times I clean it off. It's because of how I died."

Your hands tremble as you pull her towards you, gently wrapping your arms around her as she tucks her head against your chest. You smooth the ends of her hair down. 

When you start crying, she stays quiet.

Eventually, she leads you to her room. It's a little girls dream, with the big bed and chest full of toys, the pale purple paint on the walls and shelves full of knick-knacks.

She tells you that usually the others bring them back for her when they come back from their trips outside the mansion. 

You find yourself settled at a table, tiny teacup cradled in your hands, your knees aching from crouching on the small chair. It's childish and soothing and-

It's something you never really had. 

You think of your own childhood. Of the darkness. Running and running, hiding under the table and knowing you’d be found. Knowing it would _hurt._

You were so little. 

You try not to think about it. To lose yourself in the rituals of childhood joy. An eternal child, a horror story you were too frightened to think of. 

You let her braid your hair and paint your nails, because she’s-

She’s a child. A little girl, covered in blood, and it reminds you to much of yourself. Of that scared little girl, locked in the closet, stifling her cries. You don’t want to know what happened to Sally. Don’t want to know how she got here, how long she had walked, caked in her own blood, a little girl- _a little dead girl._

You let her do whatever she wants. And when the sun goes down, you leave. Trace your footsteps back to your room. 

Everything is happening too fast. Just this morning you practically bartered away your own mortal soul and-and do you even have a soul anymore? Or is it still floating down that river? What are you? How-what-you feel your breath quicken. 

You’re not a killer.

_But aren’t you?_

You think of your mother’s cold, pale face. The way your hands felt around her throat, tightening more and more and-

_It feels good, huh?_

Your fists clench, burning tears gathering in your eyes. Your hair floats higher, sensing the rage permeating your aura. You stomp over to the closet, slamming the door shut behind you. You slide down the floor, pressing your palms to your eyes.

You are a monster. Jeff started it, and you?

You finished it. 

And then, baptized in your own blood. You died and became someone new. 

You weren’t a killer. But you could be. You will be, you have no choice. 

Correction-you had a choice. And you made it. You think of Death, of their own words telling you that you’d never die. 

God you want a cigarette. 

The rage simmers inside of you, and you don’t remember being this angry. You close your eyes, breathing in the dusty air of the closet. Finding comfort in the darkness.

You pull at the tether in your chest. You know, almost instinctively where it will lead you. You stand, making your way through darkened hallways, past closed doors.

Finally you stop before a door. You don’t knock as you open the door. The anger is there, is always there now. And you want-fuck, you want answers. And now you stand on solid ground, finally an equal. If you ask a question, Jeff can’t just ignore you. 

As the door opens, he begins to yell, “Good lord can any of you fucking learn to knock,” he looks up, “oh.”

You remain silent as you step forward, shutting the door behind you. He watches you with wary eyes, likely remembering the punch from earlier.

“I want to know why you took me. Why you did all of it.” 

He swallows, thinking about how to respond. Thinks of the numbness, the way seeing you had felt like the briefest burst of sunlight. He doesn’t know what to say, responds in the only way he knows how. 

“I was empty, and then I wasn’t. You made me...feel things.”

Something inside of you snaps. Your fury bubbling over. 

“No. Fuck you, you can’t just say that I ‘make you feel things’ and think that in any way explains the shit you did to me. You ruined my life, I was fine, I was _happy_ and, what you thought I was hot and decided to ruin everything I had? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His voice grows cold, “You were happy? Really? Because to me it looked a lot like you were living in some shithole town, stuck with an abusive parent? I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me you were really happy.”

A bitter laugh escapes your mouth, and you want to yell want to scream.

“I was happy, because I had people around me who made me happy. And you took that from me. You killed Mariah, and then you fucking kidnapped me, and locked me up and? What? Expected me to-to save you? Or love you? What the hell did you expect?” 

“I don’t know! I don’t know what I expected. I don’t-You died, you weren’t supposed to make me think about this!”

You scoff, almost amazed at his audacity. “Yeah. well I came back. Deal with it.” with that you leave his room, slamming the door behind you.

You hate him. 

You hate him, hate what he did.

He took _everything_ from you.

One day, you think, you will make him hurt. Will make him feel as desperate, and small, and _scared,_ as he made you.

_And you’ll enjoy every second of it._


	23. HOW MY POOR HEART ACHES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Every Breath You Take (covered) by Chase Holfelder
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Poorly written stuttering

There’s a moment just before waking where you find yourself stuck. Distantly you’re aware of the cold air settling against your skin, the scratchy fabric of your mattress beneath your arms. The distant sounds of people waking, the pounding of the rain against your window.

You are nowhere. You are everywhere. You stare off into an empty void, let the silence fill your lungs. You hear a faint voice, a girl, a woman.

Mariah-

A fist pounding at your door.

Your eyes open.

You open the door and-you find a stranger looking back at you. It’s a boy, maybe a bit older than you. He seems to almost curl in on himself when you open the door, a flinch smothered at the last second. An instinctual reaction.

You recognize yourself in him, in the briefest of moments.

He looks mostly normal, with deep brown eyes and brown hair. His skin, a sickly pale color. It is his clothing that marks him as different, the mask covering his mouth, the bright orange goggles pushed back on his head. The hatches dangling from his hips, one rusted, the other still glimmering with a dull shine.

The two of you stand in silence for a moment, contemplating the other. You aren’t sure what he’s seeing in you, aren’t quite sure if you want to.

Finally, he smiles. You can tell by the telltale wrinkling at the corners of his eyes, as he gestures for you to follow him. 

He’s quiet, only speaking to inform you that you’d be choosing a weapon today, being matched with someone else in the house. You ignore the slight stutter to his words. The weapon you choose, he begins, will correlate with the person who would be training you for the next few weeks.

And then, when you’re ready, you’ll be sent on missions.

It’s almost too much for you to stomach.

You’ll have to kill people, you’ll be just as awful as Jeff.

Maybe even worse.

You try not to think of Mariah.

The stranger leads you to a large kitchen, pulls a couple dishes out of the fridge.

“I don’t t-think I mentioned it, but my n-name is T-oby.”

You smile, somewhat awkwardly, “My name is (F/N).” 

He smiles, turning to place a bowl in the microwave. Abruptly he pauses, turning to you. “Hey, you l-like macaroni, righ-t?”

You nod. If you’re honest you’d say you don’t give a shit what you eat, as long as you get to eat. You’d say you’d eat anything placed in front of you, because sometimes food was just a luxury for you.

Thankfully, you’re not honest.

While the macaroni is heating up, he leans against the counter, explaining that your mentor would go with you for your first few missions.

“It’s like- insurance. To make sure you don’t fu-ck up, that everything goes as smooth as p-possible.”

The microwave beeps.

He slides you a bowl, watches the way you cradle the bowl close, the way you eat, like you’re scared the bowl will be snatched away.

Something in his eyes changes, like he’s remembering something.

It’s probably not a good thing, you think, from the way he tenses, eyes locked on your arms.

He shakes himself out of it, finally unclipping the mask from his face with a sigh.

You try not to stare, and yet…

“What...happened?” 

He looks at you, expression weary, almost somber, as he explains what he can remember, his stutter getting worse as he became more upset.

Fire. He’d burned.

It hits you then. Every person here had a story. Some more awful than others perhaps, but whatever it was drawing these people here had been something traumatic. Something different. Something awful.

The blood in Sally’s hair. The skin burnt away from Toby’s face. Jeff’s scars-the product of his self-mutilation. The thick, mangled scar at the center of your throat.

You were all marked.

Maybe this was always where you’d end up. Maybe-maybe you would have sat in this chair across from Toby, even if Jeff had never seen you, had never found you, and liked you, and wanted you.

Was this destiny?

This was too much to be thinking about while you were eating macaroni.

The time flew by faster once you got lost in your own head. Soon, you were standing before a table full of weapons. Toby led you closer, fingers light on your wrist. There were a few weapons you recognized, knives and swords mostly, though there were other things too. Such as the mace peeking out beneath a few guns. Garrotes, and drills, a hammer here, an axe there. There was even a flamethrower.

It was almost ridiculous. 

You think back to the shard of glass you’d carried for the better part of a week, the comfortable weight of it in your hand. It had been painful, the cracked edges digging into your hands, and you’d been scared it would break if you moved it too fast. You spare half a thought to wonder where it went, before moving closer to the clutter of knives.

There was a random assortment of the weapons, varying in size and shape. You tried to think about what you’d want in a blade. How that would coincide with your new goals.

You would need something light, Not too heavy, so as to risk your own safety, but heavy enough to actually do damage.

Your eyes drift to the pile, hands gently moving knives out of the way as you look for...something.

Your hand stills.

The blade is a silver closer to white, the handle thick and clear. You can tell it’s glass, as you rub the tip of your finger over the delicately carved flowers on the end of the handle.

It’s a little dirty, likely having been sat on this table for years.

You grip the handle, pulling the knife out of the pile.

It’s beautiful.

It’s horrifying.

You turn to Toby, presenting the blade. He nods, leading you back to your room. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, stare at the knife in your hands.

It’s starting to sink in for you. What you’ll have to do.

You think of your teacher, your mother. There was a knife that first time, fear and hysteria and Jeff’s hands around your wrist.

You’d been alone the second time. Just you, your mother, and the frightening anger coursing through your blood. Your hands, her throat. 

Her throat had been crushed beneath your clumsy hands. Almost childlike in your rage.

Maybe you could have had a chance to be...normal after that first kill. To move on with your life.

But you could never be that person again.

Maybe this was okay.

Toby comes back soon enough, a slip of paper in his hands.

The name of your mentor. Likely your new schedule.

He passes it to you and-

_Of course._

You don’t know much about Him, but you have a sick feeling that Slenderman gains some form of amusement from the goings on of the occupants of the mansion.

So, of course you would be paired with Jeff.

If Slenderman was under the assumption that Jeff murdered you, then of course you would be forced to train under him. 

You should have picked that fucking flamethrower.

The list contains one other name, along with a short schedule.

Whoever this Ben is, you haven’t met him yet. 

You don’t look at Jeff when you enter the room. The both of you sit, quiet. Neither of you are quite sure what to say to each other after the argument the night before. The coming weeks ahead of you. Your knife dangles loosely in your grip, one hand rubbing your forehead. The hair around your shoulders floats higher, your agitation clearly visible. 

You want to kill him. 

You are afforded the knowledge to know that you can’t. Not now. Not with whatever deal you'd all made with Slenderman binding you to this earth.

Suddenly, an idea begins to form.


	24. I HATE THE AIR HE BREATHES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Brutus by The Buttress

You and Jeff sit in silence, staring out at the blank wall ahead of you. It’s awkward, irritating. Finally, he stands up with a huff, gesturing for you to rise as well. He walks backwards, putting some space between the two of you.

“Alright, I want you to attack me-fists only.”

You place your blade down on the glass, and then you pause.

You’d never really...fought before. You aren’t even really sure how to actually fight. You’d only won your previous fights through the power of luck.  
He watches you for a moment, before sighing, slowly stepping forward.

“Alright, try and position your body like mine-I’ll see what you need from that point.”

He shows you the move, and you pull up your arms, hands balled into fists, trying best as you can to mimic him.

He walks around you, using only light touches to help maneuver your body correctly. Finally he seems satisfied, coming to stand in front of you once more.

“Alright. Hit me.”

You feel the nerves building in your stomach, like you’ll catch fire at any second. You breathe slowly, deeply, and then you hit him. You aim for his stomach like before. It’s almost funny the way he bends in on himself, hand pressed against the wound, the still healing mark carved into his skin.

You hate him.

He’s the only person you can be honest with.

It makes something inside of you squirm with discomfort.

After a moment, Jeff stands back up, hand loosely pressed against his stomach. He pauses for a moment, seemingly considering something, before nodding silently. 

“Your form is...okay, though you’re mostly a beginner, so it’s to be expected. The real issue here is your anxiety.”

Your hands clench anxiously, “My anxiety?”

He nods, thinking over his words. “You’re afraid to hurt me-well maybe not _me_ specifically, but you’re scared to hurt people. That’s something you’re going to have to get over, and fast.”

Suddenly it feels like you were the one punched in the gut, a lump forming in your throat. 

He continues, “I don’t know what you’re thinking but you’re going to have to put your issue with me to the side, you _will_ have to kill again.”

You feel the blood rushing to your face, your eyes burning hotly with the beginning of tears.

“My issue with you? Jeff, I don’t think I can ever put ‘my’ issues to the side. I don’t know if you forgot, but you killed me.” Your finger is in his face, one hand clenched, and you want, so badly to hurt him. 

He grabs your wrist, squeezing lightly as his voice lowers, little more than a whisper. “No (F/N), you did that one yourself.”

You go stiff, and you’re angry. Really truly angry. The hair around your shoulders floats ominously as your hands clench, wrist still trapped in his grip.

“Fuck you.”

He scoffs, laughing meanly when you yank your wrist from his grasp. 

“I’m awful, you’re awful. Get over it.”

You storm out of the room, slamming the door behind you.

You hate him.

You hate that he’s right.

You’re pacing near the kitchen when a man walks up to you, waiting for you to move from the doorway. You shuffle out of the way, rubbing your forehead as you sit down at the table.

He walks slowly, and something about him seems oddly familiar. He looks tired, dark bruises hidden beneath his hair. He’s short, but thickly built, his eyes dark, bottomless. He’s handsome, you think, as you stare at him. 

“...Do you need something?”

You flinch meeting his eyes for a second, before letting your gaze drift to his thick sideburns. “No-nothing, I just...you seem familiar?”

His head tilts, inspecting you. He pulls a familiar looking mask out of his pocket.

It takes a moment until, “Oh! I-I’m so sorry.”

This is the man from the woods, the one you’d slit open, greedily consuming his blood, like some wild, starved creature. You feel guilt gnaw at your insides, even as he lifts a hand, waving your concerns away.

“It’s fine, I just wasn’t expecting it. I’m fine.”

You pause, feeling awful and awkward and so damn _guilty._

“Did I...are you okay? Really?”

He stops, finally putting the mask away, before pulling up the bottom of his shirt, enough to see that the torn skin had been meticulously stitched back together.

Your guilt will eat you alive.

He lets his shirt fall, turning away from you to grab something from the fridge as you withhold the urge to cry. He sits next to you.

“I’m fine. It barely hurts. In a few days it will be nothing but a scar, and a memory. Don’t...fuck, don’t cry, please.” 

You bite down on your fist. “Still, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

He interrupts you, “Look, it’s fine. You’re lucky you surprised me, I would have likely hurt you a lot worse than you hurt me if I’d had the chance. If it’s any consolation, I would have done the same if I was you.”

You still feel guilty, but it’s lowered, been left to simmer on a backburner. You nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You don’t trust yourself to speak. He pushes a soda in front of you, the can glistening with condensation. 

You’re startled by how deeply this small act of kindness touches you.

You crack the can open, watching the dark-eyed stranger do the same. He takes a gulp, and you watch the way his throat moves as he swallows.

“What’s your name?”

He looks over at you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Tim. And yours?”

“(F/N)”

He nods, quiet. And so the two of you sit, two quiet people, drinking soda, staring blankly into the distance. 

He finishes before you, standing abruptly. He walks past you before pausing, one hand pressing lightly against your shoulder. 

“There is this...kindness inside of you. Keep it safe, you’ll need it.”

With that, he leaves, tossing his can in the trash as he goes.

You feel the memory of his fingertips like a brand, scalding hot, lighting up your nerves. 

This is the duality of your situation. You think. Your kindness, and your cruelty. They are, in some measure, equal. You need to be sharp, need to become just as much of a weapon as the knife tucked in your pocket.

You are already halfway there, you think, with the bitter rage you’d carried your entire life. 

But it is your kindness that has made you who you are. To let go of that would mean for you to change completely, make you into something unrecognizable.

You hate Jeff.

You hate that you can understand him.

You leave the kitchen.


	25. BABY YOU'RE A HAUNTED HOUSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Baby You're a Haunted House by Gerard Way

You aren’t entirely sure what you’re looking at. The boy in front of you looks around your age, blonde hair pulled pack in a short ponytail. It is his eyes that catch the most attention. They’re dark, the scleras black, pupils a bright scarlet red. Blood oozing down the sides of his face like tears.

It’s only a little frightening. Maybe it’s just because you know that he isn’t out to hurt you.

You’re sure if you’d seen him before your kidnapping, and subsequent death, you’d have lost your mind.

He’s got one hand deep in a family size bag of cheeto puffs, the other holds him up, where he’s sat on the floor.

He gestures for you to sit on the ground with him, and, after a moment of consideration, you do, legs held against your chest.

He chews the chips in his mouth, swallowing roughly.

“Alright, I’m Ben, and I’ll be your teacher for ghost shit.”

He doesn’t ask for your name, and you don’t offer it. 

“Are there other ghosts in the house?”

He shakes his head, tongue pressed against his cheek.

“It’s pretty much just me and Sally, and now you as well.”

_Sally, poor poor Sally, so little, the blood the blood the blood-_

“How...How old is Sally?” It’s bothered you because-she looks so little. So young, and it's frightening. The implications of it.

“Well...technically she’s like...62, but physically? Mentally? Around 12.”

And there’s the kicker.

“Fuck.”

He nods, “Yeah, It’s why I’m the one teaching you, now, question for a question, what’s your issue with Jeff? You seemed pretty pissed with him when you got here.”

And of course, of course. You really should have expected the questions.

“He killed me.”

He frowns at you, “Well yeah, but what else? It can’t have been just that?”

Your hands flex, frustrated.

“He killed my friend first, I had to see her body. That’s about as much as I can clearly remember.”

It’s a lie, but he doesn’t have to know that. Doesn’t have to know that your memories become clearer by the hour.

He nods, grabbing a final handful of chips before closing the bag, and pushing it to the side. He scoots closer, til there’s only about a foot's worth of space between the two of you. He pinches his fingers, rubbing the dust off onto the ground. 

“Alright, before we start anything I’m going to need a better idea of what your powers are, what you know you can currently do.”

You nod, thinking of everything you can remember, everything that has marked you as something distinctly _other._

That long never ending walk, miles and miles traveled-you’d only stopped a handful of times, and you’d walked for the better part of two weeks? Maybe closer to three. The blood that had warmed your insides, had made you stronger-faster.

The times you’ve been drifting. The hazy moments just before waking, the voices of the dead calling your name. You know it’s real. Know it like the back of your hand.

You mention these things to him, try to describe them as accurately as possible. It wouldn’t be good to make a habit out of lying to him.

“Well, I can’t really help with your healing factor, though I’ll talk to EJ about testing it after your training sessions with Jeff. It’s the drifting I’m more interested in, could you explain it a bit more? What exactly it felt like, when it was happening?”

And you think about it, explaining as well as possible. About how it felt, the way you could feel hands grasping at your skin, chilled and brittle. You’re left, cold and unsettled as Ben contemplates your words.

“Could be a realm.”

The words are startling, loud in the otherwise silent room. “A what?”

He sighs, “A realm. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but I know LJ has one, it’s where his fucked up carnival lives. So what you’re describing-it could be something like that. I’ll ask him about it next time i see him.”

You nod, not entirely understanding but willing to wait for more information.

He stretches, cracking his back. 

“Alright, sit normal, we’re going to meditate.”

You adjust yourself, quietly asking why you’d be meditating.

He scratches his head, “When I first became this, “ he gestures vaguely at his face, “ it helped me get better control of my powers, and discover other ones. It’s boring as shit, but it’s still pretty useful. We’ll start short-just ten minutes.”

You nod, and the two of you sit in silence. 

You try not to think, as your eyes slide shut. Choosing to focus on your own breathing. Those ten minutes feel more like thirty, but eventually you hear Ben release a long breath, your eyes open, and he’s standing, hand held out to you. You take it, thankful as he helps you stand.

“So, that may have felt useless right now, but it’ll be better later one. I don’t really have much to help you with for now…” 

He pauses, hand rubbing his chin as he thinks. 

“Yeah that’s about it for now, try and meditate on your own before you go to bed and you should be set. I’ll find you and let you know when we can meet up again.”

You nod, turning to leave. You’re stopped by the sound of his voice. It's tired, a little sad even.

“Hey...I know things aren’t easy right now, but it will get better, “ he smiles encouragingly, “Also Jeff is just an asshole, don’t take anything he says to heart, alright. “ 

You nod, laughing slightly, “Thanks Ben.”

You leave the room.


End file.
